March Madness
by Ryeloza
Summary: My second round of requested stories.  Chapter twenty-nine: Bree meets a fortune teller.
1. Imperfect People

**Disclaimer: **I make absolutely no claim to _Desperate Housewives_.

**A/n: **Welcome to my second round of requested fic! I forgot how much fun this is, especially with stories like this one that I'd probably never write on my own. If you have a request, please feel free to send me a message or leave it in a review; I'd love to do a few more of these.

This first one is actually a leftover from December. **Roxyann **asked for a Bree/Karl romance fic. This takes place during "Nice is Different than Good" at the very end, during Susan's wedding. I think this is only the second Bree/Karl fic I've done, so I hope it's satisfactory. I have another Bree/Karl request on the lineup already, so please let me know what you think!

-Ryeloza

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**One: Imperfect People**

Even from behind, Bree can tell that Karl's mind is not on the wedding but rather hours ahead fantasizing of the hotel room; of stripping her naked; of finally taking her in a way no man ever has. The idea gives her a twisted thrill that curls up her spine from a place she nearly forgot existed, and she's reminded of the first time she had sex: that enticing combination of exhilaration and fear; pleasure and pain. Despite how black and white Bree has tried to make her life over the years, some of the best things have come from the unavoidable shades of gray that she creates.

Or that others create for her.

She glances at Orson. He has his head cocked to the side and a slightly dopey grin on his face as though this ceremony is reaffirming every feeling of love he's ever had. As though Susan and Mike should be some sort of inspiration because their road has been so tumultuous, yet they always find their way back to one another. She wants to shake him because Susan and Mike are not an inspiration. In fact, she thinks it's charitable to say that they're nothing but dramatic fools who thrive on creating their own obstacles no matter whose hearts they may crush along the way. Susan, she's sure, must have read one too many romance novels as a teenager. The results of this distasteful habit are clear in Susan's every breath.

Perhaps she is being too critical—she wonders briefly what Alex would say on the subject and decides that maybe for once he would be on her side—but Katherine teeters on a perilous edge at the moment and Bree can't help but blame Susan and Mike. On the other hand, she'd known from the start that this would be the likely outcome; perhaps she should have warned Katherine more strenuously against trysting with Mike. Or maybe Katherine is to blame for being so naïve. Or perhaps this is one of those rare moments where no one is to blame.

"This reminds me of our wedding," Orson hisses into her ear without warning. "Do you remember how perfect it was?"

No, she decides, someone is _always_ to blame.

"We can be that happy again."

In front of her, Karl's shoulders begin to shake with laughter. Horrified, she realizes that he can hear Orson, and her hand involuntarily clenches into a fist. "Not now!" she says, and for once Orson listens to her. At the same moment, though, Karl suddenly stands and abruptly starts to force his way past people to the aisle. Suddenly she wonders if she mistook Karl's laughter for something else—what if he simply can't stomach sitting here and watching Susan make vows to another man? Guilt rears its head again in the ugliest fashion; she can't begin to think what it says about her that she feels more like she's betraying Susan than Orson.

"I have to get some air," she whispers, standing and starting to make her way out of the pew as obnoxiously as Karl had a moment ago. Orson catches her hand for a moment, trying to hold her back, but she slips from his grasp and manages to escape. As surreptitiously as she can, she hurries up the aisle and out the doors of the church. For approximately three seconds, the blinding sun and thick smell of freshly cut grass overwhelm her, and then she hears Karl's voice and it's like the rest of the world might as well not have existed.

"You following me now, babe?"

No one in her life has ever called her "babe." It makes her feel like she should be wearing black leather and jumping on the back of a motorcycle. She won't (she would _never_), but the idea of being with Karl gives her the same naughty, almost dirty, feeling.

"I came outside to get some air. It's stifling in there."

"Yeah. I tend to find church kind of stifling myself."

"I didn't mean—"

"Trying to tell me to control my natural, wild, _sinful_ impulses."

Karl steps closer to her, grasping her hips; her mouth is dry and her palms are sweaty, and for whatever stupid reason, she can't stop staring at Karl's lips. "We're out in public," she manages to sputter.

"Stop pretending that the reason we're doing this is something noble," says Karl. He seems genuinely annoyed, though she can't begin to figure out why.

"If this was noble, it wouldn't matter if we were in public."

Karl shakes his head, squeezing her hips a little tighter; it almost hurts. "I mean, we both know the reason we're doing this because we aren't supposed to. You're married. We're completely wrong for each other—"

"You're wrong for me. I certainly don't think I'm wrong—"

"You're an uptight Christian who _never_ gives into her natural impulses. I gotta tell you, Bree, I've never even seen you laugh. Other than being damn hot, you're not really my type."

"So why—?"

Karl grins, leaning into her personal space and lightly kissing her right beneath her ear. "The same reason you are," he whispers. She's trembling head to toe just from the wisp of his breath against her neck. Desperately she wishes that they were already in that motel room together. "Because there's something thrilling about doing what you're not supposed to."

"That's not me."

"You might want to take a harder look at yourself. Stop pretending you're so perfect."

Gently, Bree pushes him away so she can see his eyes—he's staring at her like he wants to rip her clothes off right now, but she also sees just the slightest hint of fondness. She can only pray that she's not imagining it. Not reading her thoughts at all, Karl grins at her wolfishly.

"Imperfect people are so much better."

She doesn't agree. She doesn't tolerate anything less than perfection. That's what has driven her to Karl. But she doesn't say any of this—for the first time in her life, she bites her tongue, and let's Karl kiss her just once where the whole world can see their sin.


	2. Call Me Irresponsible

**Disclaimer: **Nothing's changed. It's not mine.

**A/n: **This one is for **Erica**, who requested a Tom and Lynette m-rated fic. And that's really what this is—there's a little bit of banter, but mostly it's just straight porn. Takes place at the end of season five, and is based loosely on Lynette's assessment of Paige's conception in the season six episode, "The God-Why-Don't-You-Love-Me Blues."

I'm mixing up the order in which these were requested this time, but I do promise to get to all of them. These are definitely helping with the bout of writer's block I've had recently, so thank you all!

And, as always, please let me know what you think.

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Two: Call Me Irresponsible**

As Lynette practically fell into the house, Tom reached out and grabbed her by the elbow, trying desperately to heed her unsteady movements. They'd gone out for dinner—a rare, appreciated Friday night where all the kids were otherwise occupied—and Lynette had taken full advantage of the bar. In fact, Tom thought it was safe to say that she'd passed drunk an hour ago; judging by the way she was acting, she was completely smashed.

"That was fun!" she said loudly, pulling her arm away from him and practically spinning in a full circle in the process. She tripped, and giggled uncontrollably.

"Sweetie," he ventured cautiously, "why don't you take off those shoes?"

"Because I'm like five-eight in these things," she said, throwing her arms around his neck and moving closer. "Makes it a lot easier to kiss you."

"Yeah, well—"

Lynette cut him off as she pressed her lips against his and gave him a somewhat sloppy kiss. When she pulled back, she was grinning. "See?"

"It's not going to be so easy if you break your neck going upstairs."

"Pfsh," she sputtered, letting going of him and stepping back. "I can walk fine."

"Uh-huh."

"Plus these heels make a clicky sound."

Tom raised an eyebrow as Lynette demonstrated by walking a rather zig-zagged line across the foyer, her eyes fixated on the ground as she did so. "See?" She spun around to face him again, lost her balance, and promptly fell on her ass. Immediately, she erupted in giggles.

"You're lucky the kids aren't around to see this," said Tom, bending down and hoisting her back up. Lynette teetered precariously, and he tightened his grip on her to make sure she didn't fall again. "They'd never let you hear the end of it."

Lynette didn't seem to hear him, or if she did, she certainly didn't care. She was too preoccupied with sucking his earlobe into her mouth and tugging on it with her teeth. Her overly amorous mood wasn't surprising—in fact, it was just about par for the course in all the years he'd known her. Rarely did Lynette get drunk when she was already feeling depressed or maudlin as she'd always been overly cautious about falling into the same patterns as her mother. Most often, she drank when she was already in a good mood, and the alcohol only served to amplify her giddiness.

Tom really couldn't say that he'd ever actually discouraged this.

"You smell really good," purred Lynette. She pressed her nose into his neck and breathed deeply. "Like Tom."

Suppressing a chuckle, Tom started to sway with her a little, not really dancing but simulating it. She was kissing his neck now, and as she spoke, her words hummed along his skin. "It's my favorite smell. Don't change it, okay?"

"Okay."

"Promise?"

Tom pulled back, unable to hide the smirk on his face as he looked down at her. "I promise not to stop smelling like myself."

"Good."

Abruptly, Lynette leaned back in his arms, and Tom tightened his grip just in time as she nearly bent over backwards. The sudden movement fused their lower bodies together, and when Lynette straightened up again, she was grinning wickedly. "Someone wants to come out and play," she teased, reaching down and fumbling with his fly.

"Hey, hey, hey," said Tom, trying and failing to bat her hands away. "Not here."

"Yes here. Right now. I'm horny."

Ignoring the obvious twinge in his cock at those words, Tom shook his head. Preston was still out on a date; Porter and Parker were at a basketball game, and any of them could walk through the door at any time—not that reminding Lynette of this would do anything to deter her. "Trust me, the bedroom is much safer."

"I don't want safe," Lynette said. "I want hot, dirty, rough—"

Tom couldn't take any more adjectives; if she kept going, he was going to give in and fuck her right on the stairs. Impulsively, he bent and grasped her around the waist, throwing her over his shoulder and praying that his back didn't give out. Lynette shrieked at the sudden change in trajectory, but thankfully didn't put up any kind of a fight. "Tom!" she squealed. "You made the world go spinny!"

"Great."

Lynette snickered at something only she found funny, slapping his ass a couple of times as he started up the stairs. "You have a cute butt," she giggled. "I like it."

Without bothering to respond, Tom simply continued to huff up the stairs, trying hard to ignore her incessant babbling. It became impossible when she started to sing: "My husband has a cuuuute butt. Cuter than all the other husbands' butts." Unable to stop himself, Tom burst out laughing, and he was forced to set Lynette down as his muscles weakened in protest. "Hey," she whined, turning and looking at the two steps that remained, "the ride stopped early." Then, as if she'd just noticed he was cracking up, she added, "What's so funny?"

Before Tom could respond, Lynette sank down on the step and pulled off her right shoe, unceremoniously tossing it over the railing. It landed on the floor below with a sharp _clack_, and a second later the left one followed. Then, to Tom's amazement, Lynette actually turned and crawled up the remaining stairs, stumbling a bit as she attempted to stand and make her way down the hall to their bedroom. It was the most erratically he'd ever seen her behave; now that he thought about it, he really couldn't remember just how much she'd drank at the restaurant. With that slightly off-putting reflection circling his mind, he traced Lynette's path to the bedroom, only slightly surprised to see her standing in the middle of their bed staring up at the ceiling.

"What are you doing?"

Lynette shrugged. "What are you doing?"

"I asked you first."

"No." Her gaze drifted from the ceiling to him, and he slowly crossed the room to stand at the foot of the bed. "Hi," she said, a sweet smile playing on her lips.

He reached out as she stepped toward him, wrapping his arms around her legs. "Hi. How are you feeling?"

"Really happy."

"Uh-huh. Is the room still spinning?"

"Kind of." She ran her hand over his hair. "Fuzzy."

"Ooh, sweetie," he sighed. "You are _really_ drunk."

Lynette nodded, sinking down on the bed so she was sitting in front of him. As though her train of thought had suddenly gotten back on track, she reached for his belt again, this time successfully unhooking it and then going directly for the zipper of his pants. Tom watched her with baited breath, any and all humor sucked out of him in light of anticipation. There was something indescribably exciting about how unpredictably she was acting—he had no idea what she was going to do next. Inexplicably, it somehow recreated a newness between them—like they hadn't been having sex for the past twenty years.

Lynette finally finished undoing his pants, and roughly tugged at them until the fell to his feet. Slowly, she ran a hand over his abs, down over the obvious tent in his boxer shorts and then pulled those off as well. "Huh," she murmured, slipping off the bed so she knelt on the floor in front of him. "I guess I'm not the only one who's horny."

With one last coy glance up at him, Lynette leaned forward and wrapped her mouth around the head of his dick, running her tongue over the tip and then moving to take him even deeper. Tom shut his eyes, reveling in the feeling of her mouth moving hot and persistently over him. It was incredible how far back she could take him—mouth sucking, tongue swirling until he could hardly breathe. Trembling, he moved a hand to the back of her head and tangled his fingers in her hair; in response, she reached up and grasped his balls, tugging on them just hard enough that he nearly lost control.

"Oh God, baby," he groaned, thrusting into her mouth. "That feels amazing."

For a second, he could feel Lynette's lips turn up in a grin, and then she pulled back, releasing him with an audible sucking sound. Tom moaned, honestly aching at the loss of contact, but as he looked down into his wife's eyes, he knew that he wouldn't be sorry for long. Gently, she pushed him away and stood up, and the next thing he knew, she'd forced him to sit down on the bed while she reached around to fumble with the zipper on her dress. A moment later, it pooled at her feet, and she gracefully stepped out of it toward him.

"What do you want?" she asked, the silkiness of her voice barely masking the slight slur of her words. She sat down on his lap, moving her hips in circles in the most unbearably sexy way. "Huh? What do you want tonight?"

Mouth dry, Tom swallowed air as he desperately tried to find his voice. Despite the fact that she was offering herself to him with no boundaries, he still felt like the one who was completely out of control. Finally, he managed the choke, "What are you offering?"

She grinned. "I'm thinking," she whispered, "that I want you to fuck me right up against the wall. No foreplay…Just really hard, fast, filthy sex."

Tom groaned; the mental image alone was almost enough to make him cum right then. Without realizing it, his hands drifted to her panties, roughly pushing at them as he tried to get them off of her. Smiling, she leaned in and kissed him, at the same time standing up so he was able to pull her underwear off. He followed her movement instinctively; without breaking their kiss, he grasped her waist and lifted her. Immediately, she wrapped her legs around him, moaning into his mouth, and a second later, he backed her right into the wall. She gasped at the contact—he'd thrown her against it harder than he intended—but his apology died on his lips as she forced her tongue into his mouth. At the same time, she reached around, awkwardly scrambling to grasp his cock.

It was impossible for Tom to say how long it took for everything to click into place. Lynette couldn't reach him given her position, and it was only Tom's complete impatience to be inside of her that finally made him take hold of himself, pushing her further into the wall to keep her from falling. Still, somehow she managed to momentarily loosen the grip of her legs long enough for him to guide his dick into her, and then, finally, everything was perfect.

"Oh, Tom," she moaned, his name coming out almost like a plea. He felt her heels dig into his ass, pushing him deeper into her. "Shit, that feels so damn good."

Tom dug his fingers into her hips and began to move, only encouraged by her sharp intake of breath. Every movement he made slammed her back into the wall, but it only served to make her babble—an incoherent rambling of "OhGodfasterfasterfaster,ohfuckyes!" With each word, he pounded into her harder, feeling like he could never go fast enough, never get deep enough—always wanting more, more, more.

"Come on, baby," he urged as she leaned forward and pressed her forehead into his shoulder. "I need you to fucking cum—so tight and hot and you feel so fucking fantastic—"

Lynette moaned loudly, words still tumbling from her without thought or purpose. Sweat trickled down his chest from exertion, trailing down to where their bodies met and mixing with hers. This—being inside of her, actually feeling her body fusing with his—it was the closest they'd ever get to being one person. It was this thought that finally sent him over the edge. His cock tightened as he thrust her into the wall one more time, his whole body shuddering as he came inside of her. Lynette was panting hard, her body quivering against his, but he knew she hadn't climaxed. With the last bit of strength he possessed, he turned and hurried to the bed, dropping her on her back and pulling out of her. Immediately, she moved a hand to touch herself, but Tom pushed her back on the bed, grasping both of her wrists and pinning her arms to the side.

"You wanna cum?" he asked, delighting in the way she was squirming to get out of his grip.

"Yes—Oh fuck, you know I do!"

Tom grinned, pulling her roughly to the edge of the bed and spreading her legs. Lynette whimpered—clearly on the verge of an orgasm—but he took some strange pleasure in making her wait, leaning in and lightly blowing right where he knew she wanted him to touch her. "What do you want?" He grinned evilly, dipping his head and licking her clit. "You want my mouth on you? Come on, baby, talk to me."

"Yes! God, Tom, please—You know!"

For a second, he thought about drawing out her torture a little longer, but when she made another attempt to touch herself, he finally took pity. Spreading her lips with his fingers, he leaned down and sucked her clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue back and forth over her and then lightly biting down. He was right about how close she was—just the slight movement made her scream, her back arching off of the bed as she writhed beneath him. It was the most fucking beautiful thing, watching her pleasure; he'd never get enough of it.

Tom pressed a light kiss to the inside of her thigh before crawling up onto the bed next to her and collapsing on his back. Her chest was heaving, eyes shut tight against whatever overwhelming feelings she was experiencing as she continued to mutter nonsensical exclamations under her breath. And all Tom could do was smile.


	3. Love the Way We Were

**Disclaimer: **It's not mine.

**A/n: **This is for **SydneeeyGrant**, who asked for a Gaby/John fic—and I really hope this suffices. It's really out of the box (especially for me). My first attempt at a John point of view. Actually, I think it's my first attempt at _ever_ writing John. Takes place in season six as a missing scene in "Never Judge a Lady by Her Lover." Beware of cursing ahead.

Advance thanks to everyone who reviews. And a very warm thank you to everyone who has already left feedback and requests!

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Three: Love the Way We Were**

John doesn't have any pictures of Gaby, which seems pretty weird when he thinks about it because she was his first…well, first everything. Other people his age have like prom pictures and shit that they can look back on when they're old and nostalgic and trying to remember when they had it good, and he doesn't have anything. He can't decide if it's not fair or a complete trade-off for losing his virginity to a fucking supermodel. Which…yeah. She was a supermodel, so technically he could go on the internet and find as many pictures as he wanted of her on beaches wearing skimpy bikinis, but it's really not the same because that wasn't them.

He likes to think that if he saw Gaby and explained this that she would totally get it (his friends _don't_ because to them it's all just _You fucked a supermodel? Hell yeah!_), but the truth is that Gaby would just laugh in that condescending way she has. The one that always made him feel like a little boy. Or, at least the Gaby he knew would have. Now she's got, like, kids, which is enough to blow his mind. So maybe she's totally different. She looked different today. Not like a mom—not really—but…he can't describe it. Just _not_ like his Gabrielle.

It's really horrible when he thinks about it, and he really doesn't want to, but Gabrielle is just somehow _there _constantly in his head even when he wants to forget her. The pot isn't helping, but he takes another hit anyway. It's probably a really fucking stupid thing to be doing because Tammy is bringing Aiden over at like the ass crack of dawn tomorrow, and she's such a bitch about the custody agreement, but John really doesn't care. He confiscated the weed from one of the busboys this morning, and then after seeing Gaby…Yeah. Whatever. Tammy's such a freakin' ditz that she probably won't even notice.

His life is so pathetic. Work is like the only thing he has going for him and even that feels phony sometimes because everything he has is from the divorce settlement, and it was all really a bribe to keep him from fighting Tammy for custody. And that's like the shittiest thing he's ever done, taking money in exchange for only seeing his son every other weekend, but at the time it felt like the only choice. Because what the hell did he have otherwise? No college education, no skills, no job…It was like a joke. At least this way he can take Aiden to the zoo when he sees him and make sure that he has a nice place to stay when he visits.

He wonders what Gaby would think of him as a father. They could have had a kid together even if it was always, always constantly _Carlos is the father, blah, blah, blah_… And it's the same thing, isn't it? _Carlos _had money, and _Carlos_ could provide, and _Carlos_ could give the kid fucking piano lessons, and it's the same fucking thing with Tammy. But he's doing okay now. He could totally pay for Aiden to have piano lessons. In fact, maybe he'll go out and buy a damn piano tomorrow.

That'll show her.

He wonders what she'd think of that.

John fishes his phone out of his pocket and scrolls through the numbers until he finds hers and hits call because he _needs_ her to know. Somehow it's the most important thing. And the phone is ringing which he thinks is good; she didn't change her number in all of these years, and he wonders if she still sounds the same on the phone because today in the restaurant it was like a pod-person, but that's because fucking _Carlos_ was there and those kids…

He just cannot picture Gabrielle as a mother.

"Hello?"

He blinks, slowly, not sure if he's imagining her voice or not. Then, impatiently, she repeats, "Hello?" and it's _her_.

"Mrs. Solis," he says. Like he's sixteen again. God damn it.

"John? What—Why are you calling me? It's almost two in the morning!"

She talks so fast. It makes his head spin, and he really can't remember why he had to talk to her except that he did. "I miss you."

"Oh God—Are you drunk?"

"No."

"Then you're crazy. We are not having this conversation."

"I can't believe you're still with him," John says abruptly because she sounds mad—like she's going to hang up, and he can't lose her until he knows. "You have kids with him."

"Of course I do. He's my husband."

"We could have had kids. I have a kid now, you know. And I am a good father—like, so much better than you thought I would be."

"I never—" There's a sigh, and then suddenly her voice is calmer. "I never said you wouldn't be a good father, John. Now that you're an adult, now that you're ready—I'm sure you're wonderful."

"I'm gonna give him piano lessons. He's gonna have everything. That's what's important, right? That's what you always said. Are _your_ kids taking piano lessons?"

There is a long pause, like Gaby's probably reconsidering everything about her marriage because she chose the wrong guy, and he wants to be strong and say no when she asks to see him, but he already knows he won't because what he said is true…He misses her.

She misses him.

"John…" She says his name like a sigh. She's never said it that way before. "Carlos is here every single day. That's what's important. And I'm sure you're the same way because you're a really great guy. Your son is lucky to have you."

John squeezes his eyes shut tight because her words are like pounding in his brain, and all he can think is that it's _not true_ because…"That's not what you said—"

She laughs. "Yeah, well, a lot has changed."

She looked different today.

"Look, I'm going to go. Get some sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."

"No—"

"Goodbye, John."

And the phone clicks before he even has time to say _I love you, miss you, come back just for one more night…_


	4. Lost

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine, but y'all know that, right?

**A/n: StylishCandy **and **charadesninja** both requested a fic on the Tom/Lynette/Rick triangle of season three, so here it is. But I do have to put out the warning that if anyone is expecting a pro Rick/Lynette fic from me, you might as well turn back now; even though the focus of this story is on the triangle, my end game is always Tom/Lynette. I can't help it.

Enjoy!

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Four: Lost**

In three weeks, Lynette has had dinner with Rick ten times.

This is her secret.

Tom hasn't once questioned her. He's noticed, of course, in his own way, worrying about the late hours and wondering if she's too stressed and complaining about how she's never home, but he never questions it. He's not suspicious by nature—not like her, but that doesn't give her the sense of freedom that she expects. It's almost the opposite: more guilt, more worry, more fear because he trusts her.

Sometimes she wants to shake him until he notices what's going on. Scream as loud as she can, _Why don't you see me anymore? Why don't you do something? _ But she doesn't. Probably because it shouldn't matter. Shouldn't.

She's becoming afraid that it does matter, though, as every night it's a little harder to go back home.

This dinner—number ten—is different than the others somehow. She thinks that it's the way Rick is smiling at her. It's an easy smile—comfortable. Like he knows her. Truly, it's confidence through and through, and it makes her heart beat just a little faster when she sees it.

"What?" she says shyly. It's strange to be smiled at that way by a man that isn't Tom, and a little scary. Like the fear is pumping through her veins in some never-ending mantra: _danger, danger, danger._

"Lynette…" he says, drawing her name out in this syrupy way. "Can I make an observation?"

In an instant, her stomach drops, and instinctively she wants to say no. There's something in the way he's looking at her that makes her think he's about to speak freely, and the second he does, she knows that this has to end. It is the line she's drawn—an absurd, arbitrary line, but one she needs if she's going to survive this. The fantasy ends the minute one of them tries to make this real.

"I don't—"

"You don't seem happy," he interrupts her, all serious and concerned. It's on the tip of her tongue to say something biting in return, but she doesn't because this is her dream world and sarcasm has no home here. This is the place where she's pretty and funny and she smiles without restraint; the place where she is free to be someone without a past or future for just a few hours. For a second, it actually scares her that Rick can see through her façade—that he knows this is all a ruse—but then he adds, "You should let yourself be happy."

She smiles (doesn't roll her eyes) in relief. It's a line. Of course it's a line. He doesn't know about the stress of five kids or a sick husband or lies that chip away at a marriage or guilt or death or nightmares or anything real about her life, because none of that exists here. The truth is that he wants her, and he'll say whatever he needs to in order to get her. And that's the thrill of this—pursuit without risk; a challenge to try to win her. He's the first person in years who has wanted to take that challenge; the first person since Tom. The only difference is that that he won't succeed because he can't win what another person already has.

Rick knows this. He has to. She's married.

"I do," she says honestly. "I let myself be happy."

Rick leans back in his seat and raises a skeptical eyebrow. "Here, maybe," he says, "for a couple of hours. But what about the rest of the day?" The rest of the sentence—the _when you're not with me_—hangs heavily between them.

Lynette doesn't know what to say to that. There's no way to possibly explain the things that do make her happy outside of these escapist dinners: Penny learning to write her name; Parker riding a bike without training wheels; the twins performing in the school talent show; the rare, genuine smile from Kayla; poker with her friends; lunch with her sisters; Tom hugging her when she has a long day. It won't make sense to Rick, and, honestly, that world doesn't belong here anyway.

It's why she hasn't mentioned the bad parts either: how the past year and a half has worn her down so deeply that she barely recognizes herself anymore. She doesn't know how she became this person.

Rick seems to take the length of her pause as acquiescence that he's right; his smile grows a little cockier. It's funny—Tom would look sympathetic; like his heart was breaking _for_ her. Rick looks triumphant; like he's won something. "You're the most terrified person I know," he says, reaching out and taking her hand. He squeezes gently. "Why don't you take a chance on something? Just once."

Lynette smiles, but she's not sure why because it almost seems like an insult. Mostly, though, for once it's just nice not to hear that she's strong. Rick doesn't see her the way the rest of the world does, and maybe that's part of the appeal.

"I take more chances than you think," she says lightly. It's a brush-off. A dismissal. But for some reason, Rick is still looking at her like he's caught her in a trap.

"No, I think you're scared to death…I'm just not sure of what."

She takes a deep breath, trying desperately to still her rapidly beating heart, though it seems absolutely impossible. Somehow, he can see the fear in her eyes—she's suddenly sure of it.

The only problem is that it's the wrong man seeing it.

"I'm right, aren't I? What are you afraid of, Lynette? You can tell me."

"I need to go home," she says. Rick looks disappointed. He doesn't realize that it's really a confession: what she's most afraid of is getting so lost that she won't be able to find her way back to Tom.

Hurt, Rick pulls away from her. He doesn't understand, but that's the way it should be. He isn't the one who needs to.

"You go ahead," he murmurs quietly. "I'll clean up."

She leaves without saying goodbye.

When she finally gets home, Lynette is so tired that she feels the exhaustion deep in her bones. It's like this every day now. She never feels well anymore—like she's always fighting off a cold that never quite catches. It's constant throughout the day, but always the worst right before she goes to sleep. In a way, the dinners are a respite from this as well; a few hours where she doesn't think about how damn tired she feels all the time.

Wearily, she crawls into bed, and when Tom rolls over and wraps his arms around her, she tenses for just a moment. It's an unwarranted worry—that somehow he'll be able to feel her guilt. Instead he just kisses her behind the ear and says, "Hey."

She wants to cry.

"You're home late."

"Long night."

"Mmm." He's half-asleep—secure in the knowledge that she's home and safe. She wishes that he would realize what Rick did tonight: that she's scared. It feels like he doesn't look at her anymore. It feels like he can't see that she's fading right before his eyes.

"Love you," he mumbles into her hair.

The lump in her throat is too large to swallow, and she can feel tears slip over the bridge of her nose to the pillow. Heart aching, she reaches down and pulls Tom's hand up to her lips, lightly kissing the back of it because she just can't find her voice to tell him that she loves him too—more than anything.

Rick is wrong about her, she thinks as she shuts her eyes and prays for sleep. Right now she's taking the biggest risk of her life, and it's not courageous.

In fact, it might be the most cowardly thing she's ever done.


	5. All the Cool Kids are Shacking Up

**Disclaimer: **It isn't mine. I swear.

**A/n: **This one is for **Amy**, who asked for a fic where Tom asks Lynette to move in with him. I tripled the fun—here are three times Tom asked, with different results. Pre-series.

PS: This kind of ignores the whole "affair" with Renee thing, because if the show is going to write it off like nothing happened then I feel perfectly justified pretending _it never happened at all!_

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed! You guys are amazing!

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Five: All the Cool Kids are Shacking Up, So Why Don't We?**

Or

**Three Times Tom Asked Lynette to Move In with Him**

**I.**

"Good morning!"

Lynette grunted in reply, but Tom only felt the briefest rush of disconcert before he recovered. Maybe she wasn't a morning person. Cheerfully, he plucked a donut out of the box that sat on the break room counter and then sat down at one of the tables (very purposefully choosing the one farthest from Lynette). She had her nose buried in a newspaper—quite literally, as she was holding it oddly close to her face—but he got the impression she wasn't scanning the funnies.

A moment later, when she cursed and tossed the paper down on the table, he became positive of it. Charlie Brown never inspired anyone to that level of discontent. "Bad news?" he joked. He was kind of surprised when she didn't scowl—at least not any more than she already was.

"What?" She glanced at him as though noticing for the first time that he was there. "Oh, no—yeah. I was just scanning the classifieds for an apartment, and there's nothing. Well, nothing in my price range."

"Too bad."

"Yeah." She made this blustery sound of frustration. "I've been living with my sister for six months now. We're going to kill each other if it goes on much longer."

"Right," he agreed stupidly. He wasn't quite sure what to make of this personal tidbit of information from a woman who, quite honestly, had been pretty tight-lipped up until now. Floundering, he added, "Well if you're really in a bind, you could always move in with me."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he had to fight the urge to wince. She stared at him now like she was trying to decide if he was insane (maybe he was), and he scrambled to make her see that it was a joke. "I've been thinking about getting a roommate, you know. Problem is that I only have one bedroom and most people aren't cool with the whole sharing a bed thing."

"Shocking," she said, but he saw the corners of her mouth twitch just slightly, and relief flowed through him. She got it—somehow.

"Yeah, I'm a cuddler. It's a bit of a problem."

"Huh. Maybe I should move in with you."

He stumbled at that, but just for a second. "You're a cuddler too?"

"No," she said, getting up and unceremoniously dumping the rest of her coffee into the sink. She smiled conspiratorially. "I'm a kicker."

**II.**

In the six weeks they'd been dating, they hadn't spent many nights at Lynette's apartment. Tom couldn't decide if this was a good thing or not. Proximity wise, his place was closer to the office, and it was nice having easy access to his things, but he felt some kind of weird obligation to her to keep the place presentable now. It felt wrong to leave his dirty clothes in a big pile on the floor until laundry day when he knew she'd see them. And sometimes she'd get this look on her face if he let the dishes pile up in the sink too long.

Of course, the other distinct advantage of staying at his place was that it wasn't completely creepy. He never slept well at her apartment, constantly disrupted by the sounds of car alarms going off and neighbors screaming and the television blaring from the apartment next door. Somehow Lynette slept like the dead through all of it, which made absolutely no sense to him seeing that of the two of them, she was the light sleeper.

So most nights, he just insisted that they go back to his place. Keeping the place tidy seemed like a fair compromise for not being murdered in the middle of the night.

One night, for some reason or another, they ended up back at her apartment after going to the movies. She'd gone straight to the bedroom to put on her pajamas while he triple checked the locks (he'd installed a deadbolt after the first time he saw where she lived, but every time he came back, he thought about putting in another one). Lynette never commented on this; if she thought he was paranoid, she hid it really well.

By the time he got into bed, he was reasonably certain that they'd survive the night without someone breaking and entering. After an hour, he was able to calm down enough to finally fall asleep.

It was around three in the morning that he woke up to this horrible screeching sound, sitting bolt upright in bed with his heart racing, eyes darting around the room as though something would pop out of the shadows. Beside him, Lynette remained as still as stone.

"Did you hear that?" he demanded, and for good measure he shook her shoulder. She moaned. "Lynette? Did you hear that?"

She mumbled something that sounded like, "Merubbascat," and Tom groaned.

"I'm serious. It sounded like screaming."

Finally, she rolled over, not opening her eyes, but at least facing him. "Cat," she yawned.

"Huh?"

"Mrs. Rupert's cat. She steps on it sometimes, and it screeches."

It should have been funny, he thought. He should have laughed in relief. Instead, he collapsed back on his pillow, rubbing a hand over his forehead and sighing loudly. "Jesus," he said, blowing out a deep breath. "I don't know how you deal with this place."

"No choice," she muttered, shifting to throw an arm over his torso and rest her head on his chest. "Just a cat."

Before he even thought it through, the words spilled out of him: "You should just move in with me."

Lynette didn't respond. She was probably already asleep again.

**III**.

The problem, as Tom saw it, was that Lynette was completely, drop dead sexy even when she was being irrational. And that made it really hard not to just give up on arguing with her and kiss her until he couldn't breathe. Maybe sometimes—possibly a lot of the time—he did that anyway, but every so often, he found something that wasn't worth backing down from.

This was one of those times.

It really wasn't fair either, because they were standing outside and the wind was whipping her hair around in this oddly attractive way and her eyes were glinting dangerously, and how was he ever supposed to ignore that?

Lynette crossed her arms impatiently, glaring daggers at him. "Just take it back."

"I can't just take it back." The urge to laugh was almost impossible to quell, and a smile broke through on his face anyway. It only made her look madder. "You're being really stubborn."

"_You_," she snarled, "invite your ex-girlfriend to sleep on your couch, and then ask me if it's okay. It is not okay, Tom!"

"I—"

"But when I say that—when I say no—you still won't take it back. And _I'm_ the one who's stubborn?"

"It's one night."

"One night too many! I don't trust her!"

Tom rolled his eyes. "You mean you don't trust me, right?"

"I just—It only takes one mistake, Tom. That's all."

He shrugged. Technically she was right, but really it still came down to the fact that she didn't trust him not to make the mistake in the first place. Somehow it was incredibly frustrating, insulting and infuriating all at once, and yet at the same time, he still just wanted to take her into his arms and hold her until she realized that she was the only woman in the world he wanted. He felt like if she could just see herself through his eyes for even a second, she'd know that she never had to worry about anything.

This was it.

Apparently, the way he was staring at her did little to convey any of his thoughts. After a minute, she let out a huffy sigh and turned, storming toward her car as though not to spare him another moment. And it was then, in some surge of desperation, that Tom knew he had to do something to make her understand.

"Move in with me!"

The words stopped her in her tracks, hanging between them heavily, and Tom felt his heart beating so hard that it felt like it might burst out of his chest. He hadn't intended to say that, but now that he had, he realized just how much he meant it. Unable to breathe, he waited for her to turn around; if he could just see her face, he'd know.

_Mistake_, his mind taunted him, the interim leaving too much time for regret. _Big, big mistake. You asked it all wrong. She'll never say yes. Impulsivity is always a gamble. _Anxiously, he rubbed his hands against his pants, trying to convince himself that everything he was thinking was wrong. Mostly, though, he was just glad he hadn't asked her the other big question—the one that had to do with the ring hidden in his sock drawer; the one that she'd probably never forgive him for if he blurted it out in the middle of an argument. At least with this, it wouldn't be the end of the world if she said no.

_Please don't say no_.

Lynette turned.

Tom smiled.


	6. Just the Start of Something More

**Disclaimer: **It isn't mine. I feel like a broken record.

**A/n: **This one is for **Breesecretdaughter**, who asked for a fic about Tom and Lynette at their wedding. I needed something short and sweet and fluffy tonight, so this was a great one to write. I hope you guys like it. Pre-series, obviously.

Please continue to let me know what you think. It makes ten hour work days a little brighter.

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Six: Just the Start of Something More**

Tom opened the door to the limo and glanced at Lynette, who had to turn and enter the vehicle backwards because of her dress. Watching her be anything less than graceful was rare. It would have been comical if they weren't in such a hurry—by Tom's guess, they had probably five minutes until someone noticed both of them were missing; ten until someone tracked them down (probably the photographer—his sole purpose seemed to be to stick to them like glue). Without much care, he helped her stuff the train of the dress into the limo, and then crawled in after her, slamming the door behind him.

"Finally," he sighed. "You stick out like a sore thumb—" The rest of the sentence (the "in that dress" part) was cut off as Lynette reached out and grasped his cheeks, forcibly turning his head so she could kiss him. For the briefest second, his eyes widened in surprise, and then he wrapped his arms around her and turned to lean back against the door. She tasted like cranberries and vodka, tongue slipping into his mouth and gliding over his, and God, he really wished the reception was over so they could just go to the hotel and have sex.

She pulled back, biting her lip as though trying to hide a smile. "Sorry," she said insincerely; her thumb whisked over his lips in an attempt to rub away her lipstick. "Those chaste public displays of affection just weren't cutting it."

"You're telling me. I feel like I've been waiting all night just to kiss my wife."

Lynette beamed, though really, that wasn't a strong enough word to describe how brilliantly she was smiling at him. She looked like joy. Quietly, leaning into him as though she had to make the moment more private, she murmured, "I'm never going to get tired of hearing that."

"That's good." Tom's eyes darted to her lips, and then back to her shining eyes. "Because we're talking the rest of your life here, Mrs. Scavo. No going back now."

"Now that you mention it, I do kind of I remember vowing something about 'til death do us part."

"I'm going to hold you to that."

Lynette brushed her nose against his, most of the teasing of her words lost in tender intimacy. "Well," she whispered, her breath soft and warm against his lips, "I guess I'm stuck with you then."

Tom was still grinning when she kissed him.


	7. Never, Karl Mayer

**Disclaimer: **Well this magically didn't become mine overnight. Darn.

**A/n: **This is for Lisa. I've had a lot of requests for Bree/Karl, but she asked for "anything Bree/Karl," so I chose this one tonight so I could write them the way I enjoy most. I hope you all like this one.

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Seven: Never, Karl Mayer**

Bree was in the kitchen rearranging the exact layout of her hors d'oeuvres (these amazing salmon canapés that she been dying to try for months now) when she heard it. The music wafting softly through the air suddenly increased tenfold in volume and then, as if that weren't bad enough, went from Bach to something that she was sure they'd _never_ play on the radio stations she liked. It was as though someone abruptly and thoroughly ruined the simple elegance of classical music and polite laughter, which was one of her favorite sounds in the world. All for the sake of something that sounded quite atrocious.

She very nearly abandoned her canapés just to see what was going on. How was it possible that Rex couldn't keep things under control for even five minutes?

Out of the blue, her husband stepped into the kitchen, as if thinking his name silently beckoned him into the room (so very much like that horrid movie Rex had dragged her to see when they were first married—_Beetleman_ or something similarly distasteful). She scowled, but Rex threw up his arms, pleading innocence before she even spoke. "Honey, don't overreact."

If she had a nickel for every time she had heard Rex say that, she'd have been able to hire a string quartet to play this party, effectively circumventing this chaos in the process. "There is no such thing as an overreaction, Rex," she said frostily. "I am reacting to the circumstances as I see them, which is in no way qualified as reacting more than I should."

"Bree, he's our guest—"

"Who?"

"Er—"

Rex didn't have to say anything more; Bree knew exactly what that hesitant little noise meant: Karl Mayer. In so many ways, he'd been the bane of Bree's existence for the past two years, absolutely and unendingly trying her patience in any social situation. He was constantly rude and his language was filthy—she'd once heard him refer to his penis in _public, _although that had _not _been the word he'd used—and he apparently lacked the social graces that even a chimpanzee would have among its brethren.

And he was just so loud.

"This is our party, Rex."

"Bree—"

"I am not one of those women who is going to be grinding and thrusting my hips in some lewd manner."

"Really? Because as I recall, that's exactly what you were doing last night." Rex grinned, and Bree felt the slightest blush heighten in her cheeks. Embarrassed, she took a sip of wine. "Come on, sweetie. It's not like anyone is actually acting crudely. Karl's just trying to liven this place up a little."

Bree shifted one last canapé and, satisfied, picked up the tray so she could return to her domain. "There's plenty of life in this house, thank you very much," she said crisply, and before Rex could respond, she walked stiffly into the living room.

Promptly, she wished she'd stayed in the kitchen.

Karl had his arms around Susan, who was laughing in the most hysterical and ridiculous way, holding her so close and moving in such an inappropriate manner, that they might as well have been naked and having sex right in the middle of her living room. It was enough to nearly make her faint. How anyone could behave like that in public—she certainly never would. For a moment, she stood staring at them—it was truly impossible to look away—and then she regained her senses. As calmly as she could, she marched toward them and purposely interrupted their "dance" with a terse, "Pardon me!" The couple separated; Susan actually had the grace to look a little uncomfortable, but Bree hardly spared her a glance as she set her appetizers down on the table.

"Great party, Bree," said Karl, and Bree thought she sensed sarcasm, though it was so difficult to decipher sometimes. Still, she was the hostess.

"Thank you."

"These look great," said Susan hesitantly, and she bent to pick up one of the canapés. "Is this tuna?"

Aghast, Bree managed to sputter, "_No_, salmon."

"Yeah, Susie. _Salmon_. Come on, now. This is a classy joint!"

That time there was certainly sarcasm. Bree's smile tightened, straining her muscles as she strived to keep it from falling. So often, Karl made her want to scowl.

"Careful, Bree," said Karl, grinning at her. "Your face could freeze that way."

"Karl!"

"Oh cut me a break, Susan. She needs to lighten up. This is a party, Bree. Have a little fun!"

And then—Bree would swear up and down for the rest of her life that she never saw it coming—Karl grasped her hand and pulled her toward him. She stumbled, bumping against his chest, but then Karl's arms were around her, strong and steady and much too low on her back. He pulled her close, their bodies touching in places that they never should have been, and then he started to move in a manner similar to how he'd been dancing with Susan before, though Bree already knew that it wasn't nearly so graceful on her part. "Relax," said Karl in this low voice. "Dancing isn't so stiff."

Bree honestly thought she was in shock. It was the only way to explain why she didn't instantly pull away and possibly slap Karl for good measure. This close to him, she could smell his cologne and feel the warmth of his skin—it felt intimate, and she was shockingly not as uncomfortable with it as she would have thought, and she couldn't even begin to decipher the many levels that spoke about her. In some way, she felt like a teenager again, kissing her boyfriend on the living room sofa while her parents were right upstairs, and that was just…absurd.

"Now you're getting it."

Bree was completely certain she did not want to be"getting it."

Her senses finally regained, she pulled back from Karl and shook her head as if to physically snap out of whatever temporary spell he'd put her under. She glanced around the room desperately, but no one, not even Susan, was paying the slightest bit of attention to what had just transpired. Still, she could feel the heat in her cheeks, and Karl was grinning at her with a most buffoon-like expression.

"You know," he said, "in another lifetime, you and I—"

"Never!"

There was the slightest flicker of hurt in Karl's eyes, and Bree stood taller for a moment. It felt strangely satisfying to cause Karl Mayer some level of discomfort after all of the grief he'd given her. They stared at one another, Bree glowing a bit in triumph, and then Karl gave an exaggerated bow, grasping her hand and pressing it to his lips for a moment. "Thanks for the dance," he murmured, and then he walked away.

She pretended that she couldn't feel her fingers tingling from where his lips had touched her.


	8. Evening the Playing Field

**Disclaimer: **It's only mine in some alternate universe. Like maybe if we're sucked into a black hole.

**A/n: **This one is for **Hannah**, who asked for a continuation of the elevator scene in "There Is No Other Way." It's been in the back of my mind to write this one for a long time now, so I'm glad I finally got the push to actually do it.

Rated M! Turn back now if that's not your thing.

Reviewing is good for you. It's been proven in absolutely no studies. But still—at the very least, it'll brighten my day to hear what you think, so please click on that little box when you're finished reading.

Muchas gracias!

-Ryeloza

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Eight: Evening the Playing Field**

It feels like a fantasy. The elevator. Knowing that people are upstairs waiting for them. Tom being firm and authoritative and basically kissing her into submission. His hands still holding her arms hostage so she can't move. The slightest thrill running up and down her spine because the whole thing is so innocuously dangerous. It's like one of the scenarios she used to concoct in her mind when Tom was away for too many nights and she had no choice but to satisfy her own urges, only this—this is a hundred times better.

Tom is still kissing her, long and languidly as though they have all the time in the world, but Lynette is already on edge, squeezing her legs together in an attempt to relieve some of the intense pressure building inside of her. She honestly can't say if she or Tom is more turned on right now, and she thinks that secretly, this must have been something they've both wanted for too long.

Him, in charge, calling all of the shots, and her just completely letting go of any and all control in the one place she knows it won't hurt her.

It's been much too long since they've done this.

Slowly, he lowers her hands behind her back, grasping her wrists tightly in his left hand so he can touch her with his right. His fingers graze over her ass, around her hip, and then he lifts his hand to brush the hair out of her face. For a second, he gently cups her cheek, thumb padding over her lips so lightly that she can't help but part her lips just slightly and let out this trembling sigh. He stares at her, squeezes her wrists hard enough that it almost hurts, and then bends to press his lips against her temple.

"You're going to do everything I say," he murmurs with this enticingly strict authority. "Every fucking thing."

Right now she thinks she'd fly if he asked. She nods even though it's not a question.

Tom releases her hands. It takes everything in her power not to touch herself, especially when Tom takes a step back from her, leaving her a throbbing, aching mess.

"Unbutton the rest of your shirt."

Obediently, she untucks her blouse from the waistband of her skirt and quickly undoes the rest of the buttons. The air is cool against her skin, calming compared to the heat she feels blossoming inside of her. Tom reaches out and somewhat roughly tugs her shirt open, but not off—it hangs rather limply off of her elbows and constricts the movement of her arms, which is probably exactly what Tom wants. Her bra follows, straps shoved down her arms to meet her shirt and the cups tugged down just enough that he can reveal her breasts. Her chest is completely exposed to him now, but still he doesn't touch her, and she squirms impatiently.

Smirking, Tom reaches down and wriggles his hand between her thighs, slapping her lightly. "Spread your legs," he orders, and she nearly cries as she separates her legs. It's the most agonizing torture, the need to be touched, and he seems in no hurry to satisfy it.

"Take down your hair."

She does this as well, feeling deliciously dirty as she shakes her head and let's her hair fan out loose and wavy around her face. She can't help but think that she probably looks ridiculous, but there's so much lust in Tom's eyes right now that any possible embarrassment is overwhelmed. "Gorgeous," he mutters, finally reaching out and cupping her breasts. "You look so fucking gorgeous."

It's hard, so very, very hard, to stand there and not touch him as he lowers his lips to her chest and sucks her nipple into his mouth. His tongue flicks back and forth over her as he rubs and tugs at her other nipple with his fingers, and she moans, the sound oddly echoic in the confines of the elevator. He pauses, releasing her for a second and pressing her breasts together, thumbs running rampant circles over her nipples. "You like it when I touch you?"

"Yes!"

He grins evilly, abandoning her aching tits and running his hands under her skirt to pull her panties off. _Finally!_ she thinks as she steps out of her underwear and watches Tom stick them into his pocket. "You'll get these back tonight," he says, and Lynette couldn't care less, she just needs him to put his fucking hands on her.

Torturously, he leans into her again, slamming his hands against the elevator wall and boxing her in, and she whimpers. "What's wrong?" he asks wickedly, breath hot and moist in her ear. "Am I not giving you what you want?"

She shuts her eyes tight and shakes her head.

"Talk to me, beautiful. Tell me what you want."

"God—Please touch my clit! Please, please make me cum!"

Tom shakes his head, pressing a kiss into her cheek that frustrates her to no end. "No," he says in this low, rough voice. "No, I want you to touch yourself. Make yourself cum."

Lynette doesn't need to be told twice. Immediately, she pushes up her skirt and touches herself. She's so wet, and she rubs her fingers over herself for a moment until they're soaking, and then, finally, she settles two fingers on her clit, rubbing and stroking herself incessantly. Her other hand drifts to her breasts, squeezing them and toying with her nipples. It has never felt so satisfying to touch herself—she moans loudly.

Tom can't seem to control himself any longer, either. He unzips his pants, pulling out his cock and running his hand over the length of it, clearly turned on by the sight of her stimulating herself. His obvious desire is enough to make her crazy, and she begins to move faster, involuntarily moving her hips to increase the stimulation. "Fuck!" she hisses, throwing her head back and biting her lips. "Oh fuck!"

"Come on, baby," says Tom. "Come on. I wanna see how fucking beautiful you look as you orgasm right in front of me."

The words are enough to completely throw her over the edge. Her whole body seems to tighten, her breathing hard and heavy, and she shakes as wave after wave of pleasure washes over her. She sags back against the wall, satiated finally, but one look at Tom and she knows they're not done—not even close. He's still rock hard, and clearly teetering close to the edge himself.

"Turn around," he says, though most of the control seems to be wavering as he struggles with his own arousal. "Turn around and bend over and grip the railing."

Lynette does as he says slowly, taking some kind of unspoken revenge in the only way she can in this game. Her hands are clammy as she reaches out to take hold of the railing, and already she's tingling again in anticipation of what's to come. This won't be slow or teasing—not anymore; he's too close.

Tom runs his hands over her ass for a moment before hiking up her skirt and leaving it bunched around her waist. She wriggles a bit, taunting him, and Tom gives her a light slap to remind her which of them is in charge. Eagerly, he pushes her legs apart even further, spreading her wide, and she presses her head into her arm, biting her lip. She wants him; she wants him inside of her so badly that she can't even think anymore.

For a moment, Tom steps forward and teases her clit with his cock, running himself over her again and again, her juices soaking him completely before he's even inside of her. Then his shaking hands take hold of her hips, holding her in place, and he pushes into her—long and deep. Immediately, she clenches her muscles around him, and fuck, fuck, fuck, there is nothing so intensely pleasurable as the feeling of him so fucking full inside of her.

He leans over her, fingers touching her chin as he coaxes her head back and gives her a slow kiss, and then, finally, he starts to move. He starts off unhurried, deliberately pulling out of her so slowly that it's unbearable and then quickly thrusting back in so deep that she can feel his balls slap against her. This goes on for what seems forever, and then just as she thinks she can't take another moment, his speed suddenly increases tenfold. Out of the blue he's pounding her so hard that her breasts are bouncing and she can barely stay standing, and his hand tangles in her hair, pulling her head back just enough that it strains her neck a bit, and she just can't fucking take another minute of this because it's too much and she's about to explode.

Tom loses control first, tightening inside of her and slowing down as he leans over her back and takes hold of her hips to keep her in place. He releases so hot inside of her as his lips dance softly over her shoulders and back. The whole time he's murmuring, "Love you so fucking much. Oh fuck, you're amazing. I love you," and it's enough. For the second time, her body shakes uncontrollably, back arching as every muscle in her body tightens in absolute ecstasy.

It takes several minutes for either of them to be able to move. Tom pulls out of her and she frowns at the loss of intimacy, but it's a relief to stand up and relieve her stiff muscles. She's absolutely sure she's a mess—hair out of control and lipstick smeared and she's still soaking wet—but Tom smiles at her tenderly and leans forward to give her a soft kiss. "I'll cover for you, so you can go to the bathroom and clean up," he says gently, somehow reading her thoughts.

"Can I at least have my underwear back?"

"No," says Tom, shaking his head and laughing just a bit. "I like the idea of knowing that my boss' panties are in my pocket."

"You're evil."

Grinning, Tom leans forward and kisses her again, slower this time; it's deliberate—like he has something to prove, and it makes her weak-kneed all over again. Gently, she pushes him away, and Tom shrugs.

"What can I say? Sometimes I just need to even the playing field."


	9. A Walk

**Disclaimer: **Alas, it is not mine.

**A/n: Roxyann** asked for a fic about Gaby and Mrs. McCluskey, so here it is. God, it's fun to write these characters. Takes place during the five year jump. Enjoy!

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Nine: A Walk**

With every passing year, Karen found herself more and more amused by the little things in life. After so many years of being a recluse on the street—the crazy old witchy woman that little children were afraid of—being welcomed back into the fold had been like a breath of fresh air. A reminder that the world had kept moving on while she'd spent years shut up in her house, and suddenly the things that used to bother her—like noisy kids and neighbors trying to have coy affairs that really weren't so secret and people not bothering to get their mail when the postman dropped it off—didn't seem so bad anymore.

In fact, this was probably the most social she'd been since before Bobby had gotten sick. Strangely, she felt more alive now than she had then, like the intervening years had just been a long nap. It made her a little sad to think of how much time she'd wasted.

Of course, it was hard to keep the smile off of her face these days; especially when she was confronted with a sight like this one.

Gabrielle Solis, nine months pregnant, wearing a football jersey that had to belong to her husband, a flippy little black skirt and pink flip-flops, walking around the neighborhood and looking pissed off at the world. Karen really didn't think she'd ever live to see the day. Delighted, she struggled to rise from her chair and slowly meandered down the front steps of her porch. "Gaby!" she called, somewhat jealous that a woman so pregnant could still move faster than she. "Hey, Gaby!"

Gaby turned her head, not really stopping, but hesitating just long enough to give Karen time to hustle over to her. "Hey, Mrs. McCluskey," she said. "What's up?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," said Karen, purposely giving Gaby the once-over again. "I thought your husband was blind, not you."

"Don't start with me, old woman. I'm not in the mood."

Karen was only further delighted by the response. It was exhilarating, the things these young women could get away with saying, and it gave her no qualms about giving it right back. "Did you look in a mirror this morning?"

Gaby winced, as though the next words she said actually caused her physical harm. "I don't want to admit this, but today I had to choose comfort over fashion."

"No!"

"Yes!" Gaby shut her eyes, shamefaced. The best part was that she in no way meant it ironically. "I am ten days late now and so swollen that I can barely move and nothing fits anymore. And it's hot! Why is it so damn hot in September?"

"So why aren't you sitting at home? You know, in the air conditioning."

"Because if I don't get this baby out of me today, I'm going to go insane!"

Karen quirked an eyebrow, but Gaby seemed unaware that she'd just screamed this loudly enough to attract the attention of some of the neighbors. Probably because she was so damn loud all the time anyway. "So…You're taking a walk?"

"Oh…Lynette told me walking around could help induce labor. I figured she's the expert. I mean, she said that her twins were born like three weeks early. Clearly she knows what she's doing."

"You do realize most twins are premature, right?"

"What?"

"Yeah—It's kind of harder to keep two of 'em in there."

Gaby muttered a string of curse words under her breath that made Karen grin, but she gave Gaby's arm a sympathetic pat. "You really want to get the kid out of you?"

"Why? What do you know?" Gaby turned, actually grasping Karen's t-shirt like a mad woman, and Karen rolled her eyes.

"Take it easy, will ya? It's not like I'm telling you the cure for cancer or something."

"I swear to God, if you don't tell me what you know _right now_—"

"Okay! Jeez. It's not rocket science. You just need to get laid."

"Huh?"

Karen shook her head. Of everyone on this street, she'd always thought Gaby had the best sex life. Affairs with teenage gardeners and sleeping with sexy politicians and her actual husband wasn't too bad either. Maybe she'd been wrong all along. "Go have sex," she said bluntly. "In my experience, it does the trick every time."

"You're serious?"

"Yeah!"

Gaby glanced around the street as though trying to spot the first available man to screw senseless—maybe Karen hadn't been wrong about her after all. Unfortunately, it was the middle of the day, and the neighborhood was short on penises. Only Tom Scavo was outside, mowing his lawn; Karen took a minute to appreciate the view as Gaby whined, "Carlos isn't home."

"Well you could try a little one-on-one time, but I don't know if it'll be the same without all those manly juices, if you know what I mean. Unless you think Lynette would let you borrow Tom for awhile."

"Oh God. Somehow he'd probably end up knocking me up."

"Yeah…Given his track record…"

Gaby groaned loudly and stared down the street toward her house. "Maybe by the time I walk home something will happen."

"Maybe Carlos will come home."

"Yeah."

"Or maybe the baby will just fall out of you."

Gaby looked at her hopefully. "Could that really happen?"

Karen just shook her head. "Come on. I'll walk you home."


	10. Thirty Six Hours: Part One

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, I swear.

**A/n: Denise** asked for a fic about Tom's electrocution and Lynette's reaction to it, which is a fic that I've been meaning to write for forever, but have never completely put together. And that is the only way I can possibly explain the length of this. I'm breaking it into two parts. Hopefully part two will be up sometime tomorrow.

Bless you, if you make it through this monster. It's ridiculous.

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Ten: Thirty-Six Hours Part One**

_**February 9, 2012 – 3:00pm**_

At twelve, Parker Scavo has mostly outgrown his need to constantly ask "Why?" Most of the time now, if he doesn't know, he'll just go on the computer and look up the answer himself. It saves a lot of time—and eye rolling—and no one seems overly bothered by the fact that he keeps his innate curiosity bottled up, like it's something everyone has been waiting for him to stop doing all along. Which, mostly, he doesn't understand—why aren't more people dying to have all the answers?; why is it just him?

These are the kinds of questions the Internet can't answer. But Parker has realized over the years that most people can't answer them either, so the best he can ever do is guess.

At the moment, the most burning question in his mind is why the heck Porter is sitting next to him on the bus. Ever since they started eighth grade, the twins have basically been ignoring his existence in public, so this sudden, strange display of camaraderie has Parker slightly worried that Porter is merely a distraction, and that Preston is going to pop out at some point and surprise him by dumping leftover pudding on his head or something. Knowing the twins, it's really not paranoia so much as cautiousness, and he finds himself flinching every time Porter glances to the back of the bus. By the fifth time this happens, Parker just can't take any more.

"What are you doing?"

Porter turns and stares down him like he's grown another head. The twins have gone through another growth spurt in the past month and they're a good four inches taller than him now. Parker really misses the days where he didn't feel a year and a half younger. "I'm not doing anything."

"You keep looking back at Preston."

"No I don't."

"You're going to pull something—I know it."

Porter scowls at him in that way that makes him feel like a baby, and really that's another thing Parker wants to know—why the heck do eighth graders think they're so cool anyway? "Don't be an idiot," his brother snaps. "Preston's too busy talking to Kristi to even remember you exist right now."

This spikes Parker's interest. Without any inkling to be subtle, he sits up and cranes his neck to look back at Preston and realizes Porter is right; the way Preston is staring at Kristi, she must be saying the most fascinating things in the world. "Oh," he says, turning back and shrugging. "Well why aren't you back there with them?"

"Because Preston's gonna ask her to the dance."

"Ew, what? Like his date?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

It slips out before Parker can help himself. It's just so weird, like, is Preston going to kiss her and why would he even want to and is she like his girlfriend now? He has a feeling that these are all things a baby would ask, though, because Porter is staring at him like he's never heard such an absurd question. "Because," he finally says in this bored voice, "that's what you do."

"Oh."

He thinks maybe this is one of those things that he'll only understand once he's almost fourteen too.

Porter is apparently done talking to him. He roots around in his backpack until he finds his iPod (the twins both got them last year for their thirteenth birthday, which Parker thinks is horribly unfair, especially because he still has to wait another _seven months_ until he's thirteen and by then his parents will probably have completely forgotten that they even promised he could have one), puts on his headphones and completely tunes Parker out. It doesn't really matter; it's not like Porter ever pays attention to him on the bus anyway.

It takes forever for them to get home that day because it's a substitute bus driver who apparently has no clue what he's doing. By the time they get dropped off on the corner, it's almost four o'clock, and Parker has already managed to finish half of his math homework. It takes him a couple of minutes to stuff all of his books in his bag again, and in that time, Porter and Preston manage to hurry off the bus. Parker lags behind them, watching as they laugh and shove each other, and vaguely he wonders if Preston actually asked out Kristi.

He wonders if his mom is actually going to let Preston go out on a date with a _girl_.

It's the last moment his mind will focus on the bizarre, closed-off world of his brothers for awhile.

_**4:00pm**_

Lynette feels like her mind is spinning, her thoughts tripping over one another, there and gone so fast that she can't make sense of any of them. She really shouldn't be driving; she's already almost run two red lights, but it's not really any surprise since she seems to have to stop every minute because of one and who decided to put a red light at every damn intersection on this road anyway? There has to be a faster way to the hospital. She knows there is. When she was pregnant Tom made all these little maps of all these different routes to the hospital so they could get there as quickly as possible, and it all ended up being for nothing anyway because she'd been in labor for so many hours that they could have stopped to have a sit down dinner and still made it in time. But that's Tom. Always so worried about her and always trying to be calm and rational when he knows she won't be, and now it's her turn to be the calm and rational one and she's driving like a lunatic and can't even remember one damn faster route to the hospital. Of course, Tom had nine months to plan, really twenty-seven if you count all three pregnancies, and she barely had time to call Mrs. McCluskey to ask if she could babysit before she flew out the door. God, she knows she scared Penny half to death because she was acting so crazy, but nothing has ever been so scary in her entire life as getting a call from a doctor saying her husband is in critical condition and might be—But he can't be. He can't. Because Tom is nothing if not dependable and dependable people don't just go off and die on a Thursday afternoon in the middle of working while their wives are taking their daughters to the dentist for a check-up. It just doesn't happen. And it especially doesn't happen to Tom because he knows that she'll track him all the way to hell and back just to kick his ass. So he's not dead. He's just not. He's not. He's not. Dear God, she can't believe she's still sitting at a red light. She should call home. The boys should be home by now. It's after four. And Penny was crying when she left. The boys will probably be ticked that she got them a babysitter, but she and Tom have agreed that the boys aren't responsible enough to stay home with Penny without some kind of supervision. They're always saying _next year_ they'll be old enough, but next year always comes and they're not. Which is ridiculous because they'll be fourteen in a couple of weeks and by the time she was fourteen she already knew how to cook dinner for four and do laundry and clean the bathroom and she should really, really start giving those kids more responsibility. If they were more responsible, she'd be able to trust them to watch their eight-year-old sister for a couple of hours without having to worry that the house will burn down. That's what she'll tell them when they complain—if they complain—they have to complain because the only way they wouldn't complain is if something bad has actually happened and nothing that bad has because she'd know. And that's the truth. She'd feel it all the way down in her bones because that's how she and Tom are—they're connected—and she'd know. God—how much further away is the fucking hospital?

_**5:00pm**_

They won't let her in to see Tom yet because they're still running tests or something, and Lynette can't quite help but feel like she can't really believe he's okay until she actually sees him. Despite everything the doctor said—all the reassurances he offered—her hands are still trembling and her voice shakes whenever she speaks. It's why she hasn't called home yet even though she should, because the kids would hear the doubt and worry in her voice and it would only make everything worse.

She really wishes that she could call one of her friends. Right now the only thing better than actually seeing her husband would be having even one of her friends there to hug her and tell her that everything will be okay. But Bree is at work, and Gaby is a week away from her due date, and Susan is gone visiting her mother this week. It's so mundane—so normal—and she desperately wishes that she was at home right now fixing dinner for her family and helping Penny do her homework just like always. This, sitting here, waiting…It's making her crazy.

She's never been good at waiting.

But then, neither has Tom, and that's why the thought that he's still waiting for her—two hours since they brought him in—is absolutely unbearable.

She remembers when he proposed. They'd only been dating a few months, but it hadn't stopped him from asking or her from accepting. Honestly, it felt like she'd been waiting forever for him to ask because she'd known for so long at that point that she was going to spend the rest of her life with him. It was just a question of when the rest of her life would actually start. Their engagement had been short—it was what they both wanted. They just couldn't wait to be together.

She doesn't want to believe that it was all some deep seeded fear; she doesn't want to believe that some greater force made them rush because they knew their time together would actually be so short. Fifteen years isn't enough time together—not even close.

She can't think about this anymore. Impatiently, she gets up and approaches the nurse's station again, hoping for a different result.

Somehow they have to understand: she really, really just needs to see him.

_**6:00pm**_

"It's a good thing she hasn't called yet, right?"

Penny perks up a bit at the sound of her brothers' voices, but tries not to make it too obvious. They're talking in whispers purposely so she can't hear, but if there's one thing her brothers are terrible at, it's being quiet. She's lying against Mrs. McCluskey, who has her arm wrapped tightly around Penny's shoulders, and it's comforting in its familiarity. She's the only regular babysitter Penny's ever known, and in some ways she's closer to being her grandmother than either of her real grandmothers ever have been. At least, she's certainly there more often, and she's never forgotten to give Penny a birthday card; her grandma Stella has only sent her one in eight years. In any case, Penny's really glad she's there now.

The boys are in the kitchen. She has to strain a little to hear what they're saying because the TV is on, but it sounds like, as usual, Porter and Preston are on different sides.

"If it was good news she would have called."

"No, she would have called for sure if it was bad news. Waiting just means that it's no news."

"_No_ news is good news."

"Says who?"

"Says everyone."

"Just because _you_ say it doesn't mean everyone does."

"Hey! Chuckleheads!"

Penny jumps a little at the sound of Mrs. McCluskey's voice. She kind of didn't realize how much she'd sat up and started to lean over the arm of the couch to listen in, and as Porter, Preston and Parker turn to stare at Mrs. McCluskey, Penny slouches down. They hate when she eavesdrops. And she suspects that Mrs. McCluskey knew was she was doing and that's why she put a stop to it. But she really doesn't see why everyone cares so much if she listens or not. After all—she's part of the family too.

"Why don't you three stop goofing around and start doing your homework?"

"Homework?" asks Parker incredulously, like he's never heard of anything so absurd.

"Yeah. You do have school tomorrow, don't you?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Yeah, but nothing. Let's go."

Porter scowls. He does that all the time now, and their mother always says his face is going to freeze that way. "What about her?" he asks, pointing at Penny accusingly. She frowns. She'd done her homework while they were waiting for the boys to come home—Mrs. McCluskey had made her even though she was really upset and crying after her mother left. "School comes whether you like it or not," she'd said to Penny in this stern-but-not-really voice. The strange thing is that it really had made her feel better.

Of course, since the boys got home all the nervous butterflies in her stomach have come back, but she hasn't cried again. She absolutely won't—not in front of her brothers.

"I did my homework," she announces, sitting up and tucking her feet under her legs. "So there."

Porter doesn't say anything, he just stomps up the stairs and a minute later, she hears the door to his room slam shut. Mrs. McCluskey doesn't do anything, though; she just stares at Preston and Parker until they sit down at the table and pull out their homework.

No one talks any more.

_**7:00pm**_

It's just after seven when Gaby shows up.

The nurses have tasked Lynette with more paperwork than she knows what to do with (none of the words even make sense as she looks at them), and she really suspects that it might have been to get her out of their hair more than anything else, so it's an absolute relief when she sees Gaby waddle out of the elevator, holding her stomach and swearing at an old man with a walker to get out of her way. It's enough to make her smile, even just for a second, though she also suddenly would very much like to cry. "What are you doing here?" she asks, standing and hugging Gaby, squeezing her as tightly as she can given how huge Gaby is in her ninth month. "You didn't have to come."

"Karen called. She told me what happened. Is Tom okay? What's going on?"

Lynette pulls back, shaking her head in an absolute deference to the tears building behind her eyes, and sinks back into her seat. Gaby looks terrified, and she sits down too, reaching out and squeezing her hand. "Lynette?"

"The doctor said he's going to be okay," she says. The words sound like they're coming out of someone else's mouth. "But they haven't let me see him yet—And they said the next thirty-six hours are critical, and I don't even know what that means. And they won't let me see him."

"Oh, God, sweetie." Gaby wraps her arms around her the best she can, pulling her down to bury her head in her shoulder. It's immensely comforting, and it's only as Lynette starts to feel her tears pooling between her cheek and Gaby's neck that she realizes she's crying. She wonders if she's been crying for hours, and didn't know it. It feels like she's been crying for hours.

"I just keep thinking, what if I never see him again? What if the last time I ever talk to him was rushing out the door to pick up Penny? And all I said was, 'I'll see you at dinner.' That's not a goodbye."

"You're going to see him again. You really think Tom could just give up without a fight? He'd never be able to leave you and the kids. It isn't in him."

Lynette pulls back, wiping her eyes and sniffling loudly. Gaby opens her purse and roots around for a tissue, handing over a slightly crumpled one with an apologetic shrug. Lynette doesn't care; she just blows her nose and give this helpless little shrug because she really wants to believe Gaby, but part of her just can't.

"I keep thinking about Rex. None of us thought—He was two years younger than Tom is now—I just—"

"You're making yourself crazy. Come on, where is the Lynette Scavo I've known all these years? You are not the person who sits around crying and thinking of these horrendous what if scenarios."

Lynette doesn't know what to say to that because it really isn't true—she's always preparing for the worst because she's so used to the bottom dropping out of things. It's always the first place her mind goes when something bad happens. The only difference this time is that she can't see a way out of it. She can't come up with the solution. There's no practical response because there's no way to even consider how she is going to go on if Tom dies. There's just…nothing. Nothing but fear and loneliness and a constant, gnawing anxiety.

"We need something practical to do."

"Huh?"

"Have you eaten?"

"Oh—No, Gaby…I'm not hungry."

"Well I am. This baby is ravenous. So let's go down to the cafeteria, and we'll have dinner, and then we can come back up here and I'll cause a scene until they let you in to see Tom."

Lynette doesn't have the strength to say no.

_**8:00pm**_

As it turns out, Gaby doesn't have to make a scene.

After sitting through a torturous hour of dinner where Gaby did her best to cheer her up with stories about Juanita tearing her room apart every day when she was supposed to be napping, they come back upstairs and are told by one of the nurses that she can go in. Immediately, her heart leaps into her throat and for a second, she actually can't move. Then Gaby gives her a little nudge, promising to wait for her, and Lynette shakily follows the nurse down the hall to Tom's room.

Despite spending hours thinking of nothing but seeing him, she is not at all prepared when she actually walks into the room.

Tom lies in the bed, unmoving and ghostly pale, hooked up to various kinds of machines that are beeping quietly, and the only thing she can think when she sees him is that he looks so fragile.

Tom isn't supposed to be fragile. He's sweet and loving and kind and generous and stubborn and rash and goofy and dorky and smart and funny and strong and dependable and giving and joyous and amazing and _hers_.

And her Tom is not fragile.

Robotically, she edges toward the bed. Up close, she can see how papery his skin looks, his face ashen, but all she can do is stare at the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes in and out. It's calming. He's breathing. He's breathing on his own, right before her eyes, and that means he's alive. It's all she can focus on.

_**9:00pm**_

Over an hour passes before Lynette regains any sense of awareness of the world around her. She stands, mesmerized by the simplest sign of life because she spent five hours of her life today fearing that she'd never actually get to see he husband breathe again, and her brain entirely shuts off for the first time in hours. It isn't until her legs begin to burn from standing unmoving for so long that she glances at her watch and realizes that it's after nine. Reluctantly, she bends and kisses Tom's forehead (so wonderfully, wonderfully warm and alive!), and whispers, "I'll be right back."

Gaby is asleep when she steps back into the waiting room, dozing lightly in one of the chairs. She looks horrifically uncomfortable, and Lynette shakes her shoulder, gently rousing her. "Hey," she says. She will never in a million years be able to express her gratitude. "You should go home."

"Tom's okay?" Gaby half-yawns. Lynette reaches down and grasps her arm, helping her out of the chair.

"Yeah. He's going to be okay."

"And you?"

"Yeah. I'll be okay too."

Gaby nods as though there's no doubt in her mind—Lynette wishes she had that much confidence in herself—and says, "Do you need anything else? A change of clothes…a toothbrush?"

"I'm good. I just have to call the kids, and then I'm going back in."

"Okay."

Gaby reaches out and squeezes her arm, but Lynette can't let her go without hugging her. "Thank you," she says quietly, and it's not nearly enough to convey her gratitude. Somehow, Gaby seems to understand, though. She pulls back slowly, smiling, and then grasps Lynette's hand for a moment before letting go.

Lynette watches until the elevator doors have closed, and then pulls out her cell phone and pushes down two on the speed dial. There is only one ring before the home phone picks up; it's Preston, she thinks, although sometimes it's impossible to tell the twins apart on the phone.

"Hey sweetie," she says, and even she can hear the exhaustion ringing through her voice.

"Mom? Mom—What's going on?"

Immediately, guilt settles rock hard in her stomach. She's not sure that she's ever heard either of her twins sound scared of anything, but right now Preston sounds absolutely panic-stricken. It dawns on her that it's been six hours since she ran out of the house, babbling to Karen and practically crying, and the only thing she'd been able to say was, "Tom's in the hospital. I have to go. I don't know what's going on. I'll call you later."

Six hours. And that's all they've heard from her.

"Your dad is fine," she says, but she can feel the lump in her throat again and tears are already welling in her eyes. "Sweetie, he's going to be okay."

There's a pause as Preston repeats this—she can picture them all in the living room in their pajamas, anxiously waiting for this news—and then her son is back. "You're sure? What happened? He's really okay?"

"There was an accident at the restaurant. Dad was working with the wiring and got shocked, but there was a policeman there, and the paramedics came, and he's going to be fine."

"Thank God."

Lynette raises a hand and wipes the tears from her eyes, surprised to find that her hand is still shaking. Vaguely, she wonders if she's in shock. "Are you guys all okay?"

"Yeah, we're fine."

"You ate dinner? Your homework is done?"

"Mom," says Preston. "Everything's okay. Don't worry." There's something oddly grown-up about his tone of voice, like he's the one reassuring her. She can't remember that ever happening before.

"Okay," she agrees, mostly because she honestly doesn't have the capacity to worry about anything else right now. "Can you put Mrs. McCluskey on?"

"Yeah." There's a pause, and then, "Love you, Mom."

She bites back a sob. It's just too much. "I love you too." Somehow she manages not to completely fall apart.

_**10:00pm**_

Their bedtime is nine on school nights, but that night it's after ten by the time they're in bed with the lights out, and Porter can't sleep anyway. After he stormed out of the room, he didn't bother going back downstairs even though he regretted it instantly. It was so much worse just lying up in his room, listening to his iPod and purposely not doing his homework. He tried to write a little—he can only do that when no one else is around anyway—but it was impossible. He was too angry: at Preston for insisting that there was bad news; at Mrs. McCluskey for acting like nothing was going on; at his mother for not calling; at himself for not having the guts to go back downstairs. Not that it was any different than normal—lately he feels annoyed all the time, like he's growing out of his own body too fast, and he just wants to escape. Even when Preston had finally burst into the room to tell him what was going on the relief was tinged with just the slightest wish that everyone would go away and leave him alone.

He doesn't understand how he can want his family around and wish they'd all just disappear at the same time.

Now he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling, kind of wanting Preston to say something, but at the same time hoping he doesn't. He knows his brother isn't asleep either. That twin connection thing isn't just made up, though sometimes he wishes that it was. Like today, when Preston asked Kristi to the dance and she said yes—the tiniest part of him is jealous, and he knows that Preston knows, which really isn't fair.

Just for once in his life, he'd like some thought or feeling or moment that's all his.

The door opens, light from the hallway spilling into the room, and Porter glances over halfheartedly. It's Parker, of course. He slips into the room quietly and climbs over the foot of Porter's bed, settling in as though he's been invited. Somehow, though, Porter doesn't have any inclination to kick him out.

The silence between them is comfortable—familiar. Up until two years ago, they all still shared a room, and even now they fall back into the old patterns with ease. Porter isn't even surprised when Parker takes a deep breath—the way he always does before he asks something he knows they don't want to hear—and says, "Do you think Dad almost died?"

"Doesn't matter," says Porter instinctively. "He didn't."

"Yeah, but—"

The words are cut off as the door creaks open again, but this time, all three boys turn their heads in surprise. It seems likely that Mrs. McCluskey is going to chastise them to go to bed, and another possibility honestly doesn't enter Porter's mind until Penny sticks her head in the room. She's hugging a cloth doll that Porter hasn't seen her carry around in years, and he's suddenly reminded that Penny is practically still a baby, and she's never confronted their parents' mortality before. She'd been too young to understand what was going on when their mom was sick. Actually, Porter thinks, forgetting that he'd barely been older than Penny was now when their mother had cancer, she's probably still too young to really understand anything but how scary this is.

"I can't sleep," she says. She juts out her chin, trying to show her brothers that she isn't frightened. "Can I hang out with you guys for awhile?"

Preston nods before Porter can and Penny scrambles up onto his bed.

Parker bites his lip, obviously a little hesitant to continue the conversation now that Penny's here, and Porter is glad. He doesn't want to think about what maybe almost did or did not happen. Their dad is fine—he's going to be fine. That's all that matters.

"Hey guys," says Parker hesitantly. "I just thought of something."

"What?"

"Did Mom call Kayla?"

Synchronized as usual, Porter and Preston sit up simultaneously and say, "What?"

Parker shrugs. "I was just thinking…I mean, she should know too, right?"

"I don't know," says Preston, his indifference spoiled by a slight hint of annoyance. "Does it matter? I doubt she cares."

This is an opinion Porter shares and, deep down, he's sure Parker does as well. None of them have seen their sister since she went to live with her grandparents. Even their father's visits have petered out over the past couple of years. Kayla always claims she has other things to do, some busy life to lead. No one ever says that she's lying, but all of them privately think it. Personally, Porter believes they're all better off without Kayla anyway, though he'd never say that to his dad.

"I'd wanna know," says Penny suddenly. Porter looks over at her; he's surprised she's still awake. "Even if I wasn't here I'd want someone to tell me about Daddy."

"We'd tell _you_." Preston tickles her stomach until she giggles.

Parker, who has that pasty look he always gets when he feels guilty, frowns. "I think Penny's right. We should tell her."

"Maybe Mom already did." Parker shoots Porter a dirty look and he sighs. He doesn't want to agree to this. He doesn't want to dredge up the past, and he honestly has no desire to speak to or actually see Kayla. Ever. It's all just more bad memories.

Preston glances over at him, and Porter knows that he knows what he's thinking, but the look on his face suggests that he agrees with Parker. It's really obnoxious, but as siblings they have some unspoken rules, and he really can't fight all three of them. "Okay, fine," he sighs. "We'll call."

_**11:00pm**_

Visiting hours ended at ten, but either the nurses feel sympathy or else they're really sick of dealing with her, because they don't protest when she insists on staying the night. Karen had volunteered to stay with the kids before Lynette even had the chance to ask, easily brushing off the entire litany of information Lynette tried to give her about the kids' morning routine.

"Lynette, the kids'll be fine," she'd said. "Don't worry about it. And try to get some sleep."'

She really isn't sure if that last piece of advice will be possible to follow.

She's just gotten back to Tom's room. By the time she was off the phone with Karen and had finished her weak battle with the nursing staff, she'd spent about ten minutes wondering whether or not to call her in-laws tonight or wait until the morning. She knows Rodney and Alison well enough that they'll probably be on the next plane up here, and Tom's siblings need to know as well, but after so much back and forth within her own mind, she finally decided to let it wait.

Truthfully, she can't bear the idea of explaining it to even one more person tonight.

Now she settles into the only chair in the room, a stiff, uncomfortable thing with no padding whatsoever, and tries not to groan. As quietly as she can, she scoots forward, bringing the chair close enough to Tom's bed that she can reach out and take his hand. Whatever else is going on, she needs the physical contact—the reassurance.

She needs to know that he's still here.

_**February 10, 2012 – 12:00am**_

Kayla is just about asleep when her phone begins to vibrate, spinning in crude semi-circles around her nightstand as she glares at it. It's probably Ethan, and he's probably drunk. Since he left for college, it's become a routine Thursday night activity, and she's growing weary of it. For a second, she thinks about not answering, but the last time she didn't he ended up kissing some stupid girl, and she's not quite ready to end this yet, especially over something so trite.

"Hello," she says, not bothering to hide the annoyance in her voice. She's very surprised when the voice on the other end is decidedly _not_ her boyfriend.

"Hi…Uh, Kayla?"

"Who is this?"

"This is Parker."

Kayla's eyes widen and she reaches over to click on her bedside lamp, sitting up at the same time. She finds it basically impossible to form a coherent thought beyond: why? Why is Parker calling her? After midnight? On a school night? Why, when she hasn't heard from any of her siblings in nearly three years?

"Parker Scavo," he clarifies, clearly taking her silence to mean she doesn't know who she's speaking to. "Your brother."

"Yeah, I know. What do you want?"

There's a long pause, and she thinks that maybe what she said came out a little ruder than she intended, but she's too confused to really worry about it. "Hello?" she prompts. "Parker."

There's a noise—handing off the phone—and then a different voice comes through. "Kayla, this is Preston."

"What the hell is going on?" she snaps, because this is really getting kind of ridiculous.

"It's Dad. He's in the hospital. I mean—he's okay, but he got hurt pretty bad at work."

The words wash over her like a wave: physically hitting her hard enough to almost but not quite knock her backwards, and then leaving her with a strange, numbing, tingling sensation. Really, it's not even so much what he said as opposed to the fact that they're calling at all. Like, how bad is it that they feel compelled to actually let her, the leper of the family, know about it?

"Kayla?"

"Yeah, I'm here." She draws in a breath and exhales slowly. "You said he's okay."

"Yeah—Well, I mean, Mom's at the hospital, but she called and said that he's be okay."

"Oh."

"And…We thought…I guess we thought maybe you'd wanna know."

Kayla has no idea how to respond to that. It's been nearly a year since she's seen her dad, and as much as she'd like to blame him for it, it's really her choice. "I'm busy," has become her mantra more and more lately, and it's only partly true. It's also because it's uncomfortable and awkward, and she has no idea what to say to him. Part of her still feels like he abandoned her, and she thinks that's something that's never going to fade no matter how many years go by.

"Well…Thanks, I guess."

They're quiet. She almost asks how he's doing, but it just sounds stupid, and she knows they all hate her anyway. It's ridiculous to pretend that this phone call is anything more than a courtesy; they don't have a relationship.

"Uh…Goodnight."

"Bye."

She hears the click of the phone on the other end, but it's several minutes before she sets her cell down again.

_**1:00am**_

Her eyes shut against her will, but she's so exhausted that she can't help it. Slowly, she leans forward and buries her head on the mattress, and it's not exactly comfortable, but it will do as a makeshift pillow. The day drifts through her mind like a haze, as though she watching it from an outsider's perspective. The phone call and the drive and the hours of waiting and praying and crying and then finally getting to see her husband: it's all like a distant nightmare. She frowns. She's so tired. But she already knows that this isn't going away. It's going to be the thing that haunts her day in and day out now because she came so close to losing him today, and that fear doesn't just go away once it's discovered. It stays with you. Because someday it's not going to just be _so close_…Someday it's going to be reality. And there's nothing she can do about it.

_**2:00am**_

Kayla isn't really thinking as she blindly stuffs some clothes into her backpack and tucks her cell phone into the pocket of her jeans. For the past hour or so, she's tossed and turned, and as absurd as it is, she can't get the idea out of her mind that things can't just be fine like Preston said. The fear was too real in his voice. She knows. She remembers. It was the same thing when Lynette was sick because even then she could hear the terror underscoring everyone's words whenever anyone mentioned the cancer. A person doesn't just forget that.

Sometimes she dreams that that is how her mother sounded right before she died. She wonders what that fear was for her—fear of the pain? Of death? Of the unknown?

Kayla isn't brave enough to believe that it was a fear of leaving her forever.

Quietly, she sneaks downstairs. Her grandparents are pretty sound sleepers, but she's snuck out of the house enough times now to know that they're listening for it. By the time she reaches Fairview, they'll just be waking up. She'll call then and let them know. They'll be pissed—probably take away her driving privileges for a few weeks, but she doesn't care.

The keys to her grandfather's truck in hand, Kayla creeps out of the house.

_**3:00am**_

The truck is ancient and there's no CD player and definitely no hookup for her iPod, so Kayla is forced to listen to the radio. Unfortunately, her choices this late seem to be slow, sleepy ballads or country or one really annoying talk radio station. She finally settles on the talk radio, arguing out loud with everything the guy says just to keep herself awake.

_**4:00am**_

Kayla finally has no choice but to pull off at a rest stop. She's too tired. She thinks if she can just sleep for an hour, she'll be able to make it the rest of the way.

_**5:00am**_

Tom opens his eyes.

For a second, he has no idea where he is because the last thing he remembers was a pain so intense and the policeman standing over him and all he could think of was the he was going to die. He was going to die on the floor of a restaurant during the mid-afternoon lull and that would be the end. And as his eyes closed and all he could feel was the fear, the only thing he could think was that he was never going to see his family again. Never see his boys learn to drive or walk his daughters down the aisle or watch any of them graduate from high school or grow up and become even more spectacular than they already were. Never see Lynette again—never hold her or touch her or kiss her or tell her that he loved her.

It was the end; he was certain of it.

But he's not dead.

Somehow.

And as he looks around now, the first and only thing he can concentrate on his the sight of Lynette, asleep and holding his hand like a lifeline.

She's his lifeline.

He squeezes her hand.

_**6:00am**_

Kayla wakes up to the sound of her cell phone buzzing and immediately groans. Her neck is stiff and her back aches from sleeping in the car, and as she glances out the window, she realizes that she slept much later than she intended. Guiltily, she fishes out her cell phone.

It's her grandmother.

She sighs and answers the phone.

_**7:00am**_

Tom has finally fallen asleep again, and though Lynette feels guilty, she needs to go home for a little while. For the first time since yesterday, she feels a little bit better. Talking to Tom, trying to calm him down, grounded her in a way she desperately needed. She can't be out of control when he is. That's part of why they work; she's his support system as much as he is hers, and right now he's too vulnerable to carry her. But for the moment it's okay, because it is in these occasions that she finds her most genuine strength.

She gets home just as the kids are heading out to meet the bus. As she walks through the door, they're all standing in the foyer gathering their things, and for a moment they just freeze and stare at her. It feels like a lifetime has passed since she's seen them, and she's startled by the quiet. There's no arguing, no shouting, no teasing, no laughing—they seem like strangers.

"Hey guys," she says, managing a mostly genuine smile.

Penny seems to snap out of the stupor first. She walks toward her slowly, wrapping her arms around her waist and hugging her tightly. "Morning Mommy. How's Dad?" She yawns hugely, and Lynette frowns.

"He's good," she says, more concerned at the moment by the obvious fatigue of her children. "Did you guys get any sleep last night?"

Parker nods as the twins mutter halfhearted yeahs. It's hardly convincing, but she doesn't have time to interrogate them. "Well let's go," she says, holding open the door and ushering them out. "You guys can take a nap when you get home."

"Yeah right," snorts Porter as he heads out the door. Lynette smiles; that's more like her children.

_**8:00am**_

Preston Scavo is about to fall asleep, and he's only been in school for forty minutes.

He keeps trying to distract himself by doodling on his notepad, but his head keeps drooping lower and the pencil keeps moving more slowly and just as he thinks he's going to drift off, he manages to jerk himself awake again. He wonders if his siblings are having the same problem right now. He and his brothers were up until nearly two—it had taken forever for Mrs. McCluskey to fall asleep so they could sneak downstairs and find their mother's phone book, and then the call to Kayla had been short but infuriating. They'd stayed up nearly another hour ranting about it until finally they passed out from exhaustion.

Penny, of course, hadn't even lasted until midnight.

Honestly, Preston isn't even sure why he's in school today to begin with. It seems like the sort of day that would be reasonable to miss. It's not like he's learning anything anyway, just sitting here trying not to fall asleep.

Porter was still pissed this morning. He'd complained about Kayla the whole way to school, and it had taken a lot of effort not to just tune him out. He thinks that it's not really about Kayla and her lack of a reaction anyway—not really. Porter just lashes out in weird ways when he's upset, and Preston knows without a doubt that their dad maybe almost dying has him a lot more freaked out than he's pretending. He just doesn't want to admit it.

For Preston, it's simpler to think about his siblings than himself. Trying not to freak out Penny, answering Parker's stupid questions, listening to Porter: it all makes it easier for him not to think about how he feels. Because he's pretty sure if he took a second to really think about what happened yesterday, he might do something ridiculous like cry.

And almost fourteen-year-old boys definitely do not cry.

There's a tap on his shoulder, and Preston turns to see Kristi Webber smiling at him. He brightens a little at that, sitting up a straighter. He asked her to the dance yesterday—was that only yesterday?—and she actually said yes.

"You want to be my partner?" she asks now, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Huh?"

"We're supposed to find a partner to read with? Weren't you listening?"

Preston shakes his head, and Kristi laughs.

He's pretty sure that alone was worth coming to school for.

_**9:00am**_

The doorbell rings at 9:10.

Lynette is just about to leave for the hospital again. She's showered and has clean clothes on and has just finished making coffee, and already she feels so much better than she did even two hours ago, but she's honestly surprised to be interrupted by a visitor. She figures it must be Bree or Gaby—maybe Karen left something—and she heads for the door without too much thought.

She opens the door, and her eyes widen.

For the first time in three years, her stepdaughter stands in front of her.


	11. Thirty Six Hours: Part Two

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine!

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Chapter Eleven: Thirty-Six Hours Part Two**

_**9:00am (still)**_

Initially, Lynette can't comprehend much more than the way her stomach tightens at the sight of Kayla standing before her. It's a horrible reaction—cruel almost in its inevitability—but the first thing she thinks is that this is the last thing she needs right now. Maybe it's not fair. Whatever Kayla's doing here (_what is she doing here?)_ isn't about her, it's about Tom, but when she looks at her stepdaughter, she still immediately raises her defenses like she's about to go to war.

For her part, Kayla looks immensely uncomfortable. She's standing with her arms crossed over her chest, frowning (almost scowling), but the meanness that used to constantly hide in her eyes seems to be absent. She's grown up nicely—tall and lean like her mother, but her curves are more muscular, her arms and legs more defined. Somewhere from the back of her mind, Lynette recalls Tom saying that Kayla got into softball during high school, and it shows; she looks like an athlete.

In the matter of seconds it takes Lynette to assess all of this, she finally finds the sense to speak, though her voice has that distant, hollow sound that she knows gives away her unease. Kayla has always been able to read her like a book, and it puts her on edge to think that she's showing any weakness.

"Kayla. Hi. What…What are you doing here?"

It's an inane question. The reason can only be because of what's happened to Tom, though Lynette can't fathom how Kayla knows; that, of course, is what she really means to ask. She only called Tom's parents an hour ago, and they wouldn't…Even if they did, the timing doesn't add up. How does she _know_?

"I came to see Dad," says Kayla. Her voice still has that even, unworried quality to it—never betraying emotion, never letting anything show. Lynette hates how uncomfortable that still makes her feel.

"How—"

"Preston called. Last night." Kayla shifts her backpack where it's slung over one shoulder and peers past Lynette into the house. She's a good three inches taller than Lynette is now. "Can I come in?"

"Uh, sure," she says, reluctantly repressing her impulse to refuse. She steps aside and let's Kayla into the house, and this strange horror runs through her veins. Three years—God only knows what has changed. She really shouldn't have these visceral reactions any more. "I—I was just about to leave for the hospital."

"Is Dad okay? What happened? Preston said there was an accident."

_His heart stopped, he almost died—didn't die—almost._

"He was working with the wiring at work and got electrocuted," she says, the story falling from her lips now without the draining emotion; she's said it too many times. Any pain now is in the memory, in the worry of what's still to come, in the strain and exhaustion. The facts are the only thing grounding her at the moment. "His heart stopped, but someone at the restaurant administered CPR until the ambulance arrived, and the doctor says that he's stable."

Kayla has her back turned, and Lynette can't gauge her reaction. She sounds listless, though, almost cold, though that's always been her defense mechanism. "And he's going to be okay?"

"They're monitoring him…They're still trying to assess if there was any damage."

Kayla nods, her ponytail swaying for a second, before she finally turns around. "I just thought—I didn't think you guys would bother to call unless there was something really wrong."

Guilt tightens in her stomach for a second. The truth is that she hadn't even thought of Kayla until now, and she has absolutely no idea what prompted Preston to call her. As far as she's aware, none of the kids have talked to their half-sister since she left, and if Lynette is honest, she's happy about that.

If Lynette is honest, she really doesn't want Kayla back in their lives.

She's a horrible person.

"So he's not dying?"

"No."

"Okay." Kayla rubs her hands over her eyes, and for the first time, Lynette realizes that she must have driven all night to get here. It's unbelievable. Everything about this is unbelievable. That Preston would call—that Kayla would even come. Tom has spent more sleepless nights worrying about her and crying over her than Lynette will ever admit; he thinks that he failed her, and there's no way Lynette has ever been able to soothe that pain for him. It's something he's lived with day in and day out for three years now, Kayla growing more distant and inaccessible with each passing year and Tom barely able to hear her name without wincing, and yet here she is.

She should be happy, for Tom's sake, but the most she can manage is a cautious understanding of what this will mean to him.

"Do you think I could just crash here a couple of hours before I drive back?"

"What?" says Lynette, aghast. "You're not—Didn't you come to see your dad?"

Kayla shrugs. "I promised my grandparents I'd be back by seven. It's a long drive."

"Kayla," she says firmly. It feels like slipping back into a shoe that never quite fit. "I know you didn't drive four hours just to talk to me."

"It's none of your business." Her eyes narrow, fists tightening. "Nevermind, I'm just going to find a motel or something. Just forget I was even here."

"Kayla!"

The door slams. Lynette thinks that she should go after her.

She doesn't.

_**10:00am**_

Porter already knows that his mother is going to flip out when she finds out what he's done—and she will find out; it's inevitable—but he doesn't care. Even if she yells in public or makes a scene or embarrasses him until he wants to die, he thinks that it is worth it to ditch school.

Although, it's really not as great as he thought it would be.

At first, it had been exhilarating. He'd just gotten off of the bus and hung back until his siblings wandered into the school, and then he simply turned and walked in the other direction. And though his heart had been pounding, by the time he looked at his watch and realized that homeroom had ended ten minutes ago, the excitement kicked in. He wasn't in school. His brothers and sister, his classmates, his friends—they were all sitting in the classroom, and he was free to walk around and do whatever he wanted. It was beyond freedom; it was _amazing_.

But for the past hour, he's been aimlessly wandering around this bookstore about four blocks from the school, and it's really starting to get kind of boring. Part of him wishes that he'd asked Preston to come with him, even though at the time, knowing that his brother wasn't there was part of why it was so cool. Of course, it'll still be pretty awesome when he gets to see Preston all jealous and in awe of him when he gets home.

He's hiding out in the children's section because no one is really around. He got a couple of dirty looks from the salespeople when he walked in, but they aren't lurking around to keep their eyes on Lemony Snicket or R. L. Stein, so Porter's pretty sure he's in the clear. And if he's going to be stuck around books all day, he'd rather be re-reading _Holes _than plodding along through _Call of the Wild _like he would be if he was in school.

He should be in English right now. He wonders if Preston has noticed he's gone yet.

Absently, he pulls _Diary of a Wimpy Kid_ off of one of the shelves and sits down on the floor. His dad was reading this same book to Penny the other night, doing those same stupid voices that he used to do when he used to read to Porter. And he'd been sitting there, trying to watch TV, and it all seemed so obnoxious at the time. He'd turned and said, "God, Dad, you're so lame. Can't you guys go read that somewhere else?"

Why had he said that?

This is stupid, he thinks. Those voices are lame, and his dad is a big dork, and that doesn't change just because he's in the hospital now.

It's just that Porter kind of wishes he was here now, reading to him, dumb voices and all.

_**11:00am**_

"Hey," says Tom softly as Lynette enters the room. He's been up for an hour now being poked and prodded by a series of doctors, and they've only just wheeled him back to the room, but he's already half-asleep again. Even smiling at his wife takes more energy than he really has, but Lynette has that brittle look on her face like she's about to break into a million pieces, and he can't stand to see her that way.

"Hi." She crosses the room, bending to kiss his forehead, and then to his displeasure, pulls away to sit down on a chair. "How are you feeling?"

"Great."

"Liar."

"And how are you?"

"I'm okay." She nods, as though this is a fair assessment, though Tom doesn't believe her for a second. She looks tired; he knows she's been crying. "Your parents want to fly up."

"Ooh, nooo," he whines. It's impossible to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Lately, his parents have been trying his last nerve, one always complaining about the other, and he's already tired and sick and the last thing he wants to deal with is that.

"I know," sighs Lynette, and he has no doubt that she's thinking the same things that he is. "I tried to talk them out of it, but you know how your mother is. The best I could do was convince her to wait a couple of days."

"And by then I'll be out of here?"

She gives this tiny shrug, trying to smile and failing to make it even the littlest bit convincing. "Maybe. We have to see what the doctors say."

"I want to go home."

"Tom…"

He shuts his eyes. He really wants to argue with her, but he's just too tired. Deep down he knows, though, that sitting in a bed in the hospital isn't going to make him feel better more quickly than being at home and seeing his kids and holding his wife as he sleeps at night. No one is going to make him think otherwise.

"I was so scared," he says. The words don't sound like he's really saying them. Maybe he's just thinking them. "I was so scared I was never going to see you again."

He hears the chair scrape the linoleum, and a second later, Lynette's lips are on his cheek, light and soft and warm. "I know," she says, and the last thing he thinks before he drifts off again is that she sounds scared too.

_**12:00pm**_

Kayla is pretty sure that someone else took over her body and made her stop the truck, because there is no way in hell that she would ever consciously stop at the sight of her brother, even if it is noon on a Friday and he's supposed to be in school, not walking down the street sticking out like a sore thumb in his uniform. And yet, it's she who turns and shouts out the window, "Hey! Porter!" and it's she who waves for him to get into the truck and it's she who is sitting next to him now, thinking that this was a horrible idea.

"What are you doing here?" asks Porter, dropping his backpack on the floor and giving her this completely distrustful look. It dawns on her that she was about to make a clean exit, and she's blown it; she can't explain what compelled her to stop. Of course, she can't even really explain why the hell she even drove down here in the first place.

"Why aren't you in school?" she asks, ignoring Porter's question.

"I ditched. Why aren't you in school?"

"I ditched too."

"And drove to Fairview."

"I guess."

Porter shakes his head. "Did you see Dad?"

"No."

He snorts, turning and looking out the window, and she fights the urge to lean over and smack him. "Figures," he mutters, like he has some innate right to judge her. He's exactly like Lynette, staring at her, condemning her. For the thousandth time, she wonders what the hell she's doing.

"Look," he says, but it comes out like he's lowering himself to even dare ask this, "can you just drop me off at home? Then we can both forget this ever even happened."

"You could walk."

Porter sighs, shutting his eyes like he's in pain. "Please," he adds sullenly.

"Fine."

For the second time that day, she heads back in the direction of her old home. It's worse than she expected, being back here. Nothing has changed. The houses look the same. The lawns are still neatly trimmed and the flowers look as impeccable as always. It makes Kayla ill. Everything just went on without her like she might have never even existed at all.

Even her so-called family.

Okay, so maybe it's a little ridiculous to think that Lynette will ever look at her like more than some horrible plague brought down upon her house, and maybe Kayla can even almost admit that she might deserve it. But there isn't even one picture left of her that she could see in that house, not even one tiny reminder that she's still alive and she has a father and brothers and a sister. And it makes her mad.

It cost her grandparents over a thousand dollars in therapy bills just to get her to be able to admit that.

She is mad.

Mad at her mother for ever contacting her dad. Mad at her for dragging them to Fairview in the first place. Mad at her for trying to keep her away from her father. Mad at her for going into that damn grocery store. Mad at her for dying.

And she's mad at Lynette. Mad at her for being the reason her mother was in that store and mad at her for trying to be her mother and mad at her for _not_ being her mother.

Mad at herself for sometimes kind of looking at Lynette and wishing that she was her mother because sometimes she just got so tired of hating her all the time. Mad at herself for not being able to handle those mixed up feelings and lashing out. Mad at herself for completely fucking up her life.

And mad at her dad. Mad at him for leaving her. Mad at him because it wasn't even a hard choice.

And even after three years in therapy, she still can't get past the anger.

She can't stop being mad at him.

Her therapist keeps saying she needs to communicate with her father. She says that if she doesn't tell him how she feels that it'll never get better, but Kayla has never been able to bring herself to say the words. And all night, all she'd been thinking was _too late, too late, too late_.

But it's not.

It's not.

She makes a u-turn, ignoring Porter as he groans, "What are you doing?"

She still honestly doesn't know.

_**1:00pm**_

"You're insane, you know that right?" Porter lengthens his steps to try to keep up with Kayla, but she's been pretending he's not even there, so he's not sure why he's making the effort. Instead of taking him home and disappearing, hopefully forever, Kayla has dragged him to the hospital like she suddenly has some unquenchable desire to see their dad. And it pisses Porter off. He almost can't see straight, he's so angry, and it's a reason like this that he didn't want to call her in the first place. "No one wants you here. No one. All you ever do is screw everything up and make everyone's lives miserable. Why don't you just go away?"

Kayla just keeps going, unflappable, and in a sudden desperation, he reaches out and tries to grab her arm. She stops abruptly, turning and shoving him away. "Leave me alone," she growls. "I didn't do anything to you."

They glare at one another, Porter bubbling with a million injustices from over the years and unable to speak of even one of them. Mostly, though, he's afraid. Afraid that Kayla is going to go in there and weasel her way back into their lives. Make everyone forget what she's done. And then it'll be the same thing all over again—fighting and crying and lies and anger—and he can't understand why his father ever even brought her into their lives in the first place.

"I hate you," he says finally. It is everything. "Do you know how long I've wanted to tell you that?"

"Yeah," she says quietly, but she doesn't sound upset, just like she understands, and Porter is so surprised that he doesn't immediately follow her when she storms away.

_**2:00pm**_

Lynette is in the waiting room listening to her voicemail when Kayla bursts into the area and charges toward the nurse's station. She looks irate, and immediately, Lynette feels panic bloom harsh and unforgiving in her stomach. Before she can even gather enough sense to walk over to Kayla, though, Porter charges in looking every bit as angry as his sister.

"Porter?" she gasps. Her son turns, spotting her, and immediately the anger turns to defiance and guilt. Kayla turns to look as well, and Lynette manages to address them both with her next question. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to see Dad. He ditched school. I found him wandering on the side of the road."

"Shut up!"

"Porter Ryan Scavo!"

Porter crosses his arms, glaring, and Kayla tosses her hair haughtily. Now, more than ever, Lynette sees the resemblance to the girl she remembers. "What room is Dad in?" she demands. "I want to see him."

"No way," says Lynette. "Both of you get over here right now. We need to talk."

Both teenagers huff over, arms crossed with identical scowls on their faces, and Lynette feels the last of her patience unwind. It's too much. Just…

Too much.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she growls in this low, deadly voice. In her entire life, she's never addressed any of her children this way, and she feels unrecognizable to herself. "Your father almost died last night. Do you understand that? Do you understand how damn lucky we are that we aren't planning a funeral today? You two should be grateful that he's still here, not ditching school and storming around and acting like you have the right to be furious about anything today. For God's sake—they don't even know what's going on yet! They've been running tests and monitoring him all day because for all we know, there could be permanent damage. Your father could be dealing with a heart condition for the rest of his life. Do you get that? Huh? Answer me, right now!"

Porter shakes his head, an acknowledgement more than an answer, but Kayla looks close to tears. "So what?" she says angrily. "I'm just supposed to go in there and act like everything is fine? It's not fine!"

"So what? You want to go in there and yell at him? I swear to God, Kayla, it will be over my dead body."

"I have a right to see my father! You can't just keep him away from me!"

"I can do whatever the hell I want if that means protecting your dad. And trust me, I care a lot more about him right now than whatever demons you need to get off your chest. I get that you're pissed. I do. But now is not the time or place. If you want to go in there, it will be to hug him and apologize and try to get back some kind of relationship and that's all. Do you understand me?"

Kayla glowers, her tears finally overflowing and trailing down her cheeks. "Fine," she says tightly. "What room is he in?"

Lynette stares at Kayla for a long moment, trying to appraise whether her stepdaughter is going to keep her word. Seeing her standing there, crying, for once not hiding behind a mask of anger and self-righteousness, Lynette has no choice but to acquiesce. "He's in four forty-four," she says, and Kayla turns and flees without another word.

"So what?" says Porter. "You're just going to trust her?"

"I have to."

"Why?"

"Because she's right—I can't keep her away from Dad. It's not fair." Porter frowns, skeptically, and Lynette shrugs. "But that doesn't mean we're not going to go stand outside the door and make sure."

_**3:00pm**_

Kayla swallows the lump in her throat and wipes the tears from her eyes before she opens the door. She knows that she probably still looks a mess, but if she doesn't do this now, she'll chicken out and run away. Lynette has never yelled at her that way. She always used to talk in that calm, soothing voice, like she was dealing with someone she needed to be talked off of a ledge, and Kayla hated it. The yelling is more honest, like for the first time, Lynette isn't pretending that everything is going to be okay in the end.

As she opens the door, Kayla feels her heart thumping in her chest like a drum because she really doesn't know what to expect. Even though she lives with her grandparents, they're in good health, and she's never seen someone in the hospital before. It's kind of depressing: her dad lies in bed looking pale and sick, and for a second she wants to turn around and run away, but then his eyes open—widen in surprise—and he smiles.

"Kayla?"

"Hi," she says quietly, shutting the door and then leaning back against it. She doesn't want to come closer. She's still mad. She still has things to say. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay. I—What are you doing here?"

"I heard what happened," she says, leaving it at that for now. She's finding it a lot harder to hold on to her anger when he looks so small and unwell. She tries to concentrate on the way he's smiling at her, tired but happy (such a lie when she knows he doesn't really care), but even that doesn't help. "I wanted to talk to you."

"I'm so glad you came. I've missed you."

Liar. Liar, liar, liar.

It's on the tip of her tongue to call him out. She wants to so badly. But in this moment, facing him, it's impossible. Lynette is right. This isn't the time.

"I missed you too," she finally says, and maybe it's even true.

What scares her, though, is the thought that she'll never get the chance to say everything she needs to, and she'll just have to live with this anger forever.

_**4:00pm**_

Kayla ends up staying over an hour, and though Lynette is tempted to interrupt, she can't find any justification to burst into that room. Whatever they're saying it probably long overdue, though when Kayla finally leaves the room, she just looks kind of defeated. She glances at Lynette and Porter, as though she's not at all surprised to find them sitting right outside the door, and sighs. "It's fine," she says. "You don't have to worry."

"I'm not."

Kayla shrugs as though she couldn't care one way or the other what Lynette thinks or feels. "I have to go," she says. "My grandparents are going to kill me."

Lynette nods. "I'm glad you came." She's surprised to find that it's actually true.

A look of confusion furrows Kayla's brow for the briefest moment, and then disappears as quickly as it came. Finally, awkwardly, she says, "Okay, well…Bye." And then she's gone.

Porter, who has been terribly silent since she lambasted him for skipping school, turns now and looks at her wearily. "Why do you put up with her?"

Lynette stares at him, overwhelmed with the strange compulsion to tell him the whole truth: that she has to, for Tom, because she loves him; because deep down, some part of her understands why Kayla is who she is; because sometimes you have to give someone a second chance; because she's learned the hard way that you can't hold onto anger or eventually it will never leave you, just eating you alive. But none of this comes out.

"She's just going to go back to ignoring Dad as soon as this is all over."

"Maybe."

"I hate her."

She frowns, reaching out and running a hand over the back of Porter's head. "What is going on with you lately, bud? Huh?"

"I'm just upset about Kayla. And Dad."

"This has been going on a lot longer than that."

Porter shrugs, looking down the hall and not responding. For a minute, Lynette stares at him, and then she leans down and kisses the top of his head. It's impossibly frustrating to have him shut her out like this, doubly so because she knows that he gets this all from her, but she knows better than anyone that she can't force him to talk. She just has to wait until he's ready.

"You want to go in and see your dad for a couple minutes?"

Porter glances back at the door, and then shakes his head. "No. Can we just go home? Please."

"Sure," she agrees, but the worry edges in. "Let me just tell Dad we're going. I'll be right back."

_**5:00pm**_

Parker and Penny are both asleep when she gets home, her son passed out on the couch and her daughter curled up in a ball on the floor. She and Porter stopped and got take-out on the way home, but she's reluctant to wake up the kids.

"They won't sleep at all tonight," Karen warns her, but Lynette can't find the heart to do it.

"It's okay," she says. "It's been a long day."

_**6:00pm**_

Bree stops over. She has enough food to feed them for a week, and Lynette has never been so grateful. The last thing she wants to think about is cooking.

"Are you okay?" asks Bree as Lynette steps out into the cool night air and shuts the door behind her. "You look exhausted."

She knows that's the polite word for how awful she must look, and she smiles at Bree gratefully. "I am exhausted," she admits. "And every other minute I feel like crying or screaming. I just don't know how to deal with all of this."

"I try to focus on the little things I can do," says Bree quietly, and Lynette is suddenly struck all over again by the fact that she's been through this too. Only she lost her husband. In one brief moment of selfishness, Lynette is glad that it was Bree and not her—and immediately she hates herself for even thinking it. "It helps."

Lynette nods, but it's impossible to focus on anything but the fact that Tom is still in the hospital.

She still feels like her life is never going to be the same.

_**7:00pm**_

When Lynette walks into the room that night, Tom doesn't give her the choice of sitting in the chair. The second he sees her, he sits up in bed a little (ignoring how it drains him), opens his arms and says, "Come here." For a second, it looks like she's going to refuse, but then she drops her purse on the floor and carefully crawls into bed with him, laying her head on his chest and sighing.

"Hi."

"Hi." He smiles and presses a kiss to the top of her head. For the first time all day, he feels relaxed, like he can finally breathe. In times like this it actually hurts not to hold her, and he knows she feels the same way. "Thank you for calling Kayla."

"I didn't. It was Preston. Actually, I think the kids were in on it together."

"Really? Why?"

"I don't know. Porter said it was Parker's idea. I guess they thought she should know."

Tom nods, not particularly concerned by the why—he's just so grateful that it actually happened. It wasn't perfect, by any means. Kayla was holding back, closed off and hesitant and raw, but it was the first time he's seen her since last summer, and all he can really focus on is the fact that she actually came. It feels like a step forward, finally, after moving backward for so long.

"I'm going to fall asleep," Lynette murmurs. "I should sit up."

"Don't." His hold on her tightens, though she doesn't even attempt to move. She just sighs a little, nuzzling her cheek against his chest, and says, "Okay."

_**8:00pm**_

By eight o'clock, all four of the Scavo children are asleep.

Porter's sleep is restless. His mind is too active, replaying the events of the day again and again. Every time he drifts off, inevitably some vision of the hospital room door jolts him from his sleep.

Penny doesn't dream at all. She's so tired that no image can invade her mind, good or bad, and when she wakes up in the morning, it will seem like a normal Saturday.

Preston's dreams shift constantly throughout the night. Visions of Kristi in a purple gown, laughing and holding his hand mix with strange moments where he stands in front of his own grave while Porter fills in the hole. He can't make sense of it, but it doesn't really matter. It's just a dream.

Parker dreams he's lost. He's on a little boat in the sea, and all around him is a thick white fog. He can't see anything. He's all alone. And yet, for some reason, he isn't scared.

_**9:00pm**_

Lynette is almost but not quite asleep, a nightmare tugging at the corners of her mind persistently, trying to draw her back to a place of worry and fear and pain. It all lurks inside of her now, waiting for an outlet that can only be found when she completely lets down her defenses, and that is why she won't let herself pass out completely.

She wonders if she'll ever be able to sleep again without bad dreams.

She's so tired.

She can hear Tom's heartbeat beneath her ear—comforting; constant. He's okay.

It's impossible to stay awake.

_**10:00pm**_

The dream comes in odd flashes.

She's at a funeral, but she's dressed in white, not black, and Gaby sits next to her wearing a clown's costume. "Smile," she says, honking her red nose. And Lynette thinks she should because Gaby looks ridiculous—huge shoes and an oversized bow tie and a crazy red wig—but it's not a smile painted on her clown face, but a frown, and it makes her want to cry.

Bree is giving the eulogy.

They're not in a church; they're sitting in pews on the shore of a lake, and Bree is standing in the water as she speaks. She's dressed like an angel in all white robes and there's a halo above her head, one like for a child's costume, made out of gold pipe cleaners and just a little crooked. "We're here today to say goodbye to our dear friend," she says.

"She's doing it wrong."

Lynette turns. Her mother sits where Gaby was a second ago, arms folded, a smirk on her face. "You need to go up there."

"No. I'm not supposed to."

"Yes you are."

Lynette crosses her arms petulantly, but her mother reaches out and slaps the side of her head. "Get up there!" she shouts. "Now!"

Trembling, Lynette stands up and heads out of the pew, the sand squishing uncomfortably beneath her toes. Carlos flies by in a miniature plane, smiling and waving as he does loop-de-loops in the sky. Little white clouds puff out of the back of the plane, spelling out her name in elaborate script as he flies away. She smiles for a moment, but when she looks again, it's all changed: "Surrender, Lynette," it says, like she's in _The Wizard of Oz_. But it's not a demand from the Wicked Witch, it's a command to give up.

She looks back at Bree.

"We're here today to say goodbye to our dear friend."

"She already said that part."

It's Susan. She's riding a tricycle.

"She's doing it wrong," Lynette says again because she thinks Susan will understand.

"It's because she's waiting for you."

"No she's not."

"Yep. Come on! It's not so scary."

Lynette takes a few steps forward, following Susan as she peddles down the beach, but then she catches a glimpse of something in the sand and bends down to investigate. It's a ring—her wedding ring—glinting in the moonlight.

"Don't lose it," warns Gaby. She does a cartwheel past Lynette.

Susan is still shouting. "Come on!"

Lynette picks up the ring and grasps it in her fist, but there's a sharp pain as she closes her hand and when she opens it up, she sees she's bleeding. Absently, she wipes it on her dress, and tries to put the ring back on her finger, but the pain is too intense. The bleeding won't stop.

"You should wash that. It'll get infected," warns Susan.

Lynette thinks that she's right. She hurries toward the water now, wading in and disturbing the calmness of the lake. Bree frowns unhappily, but Lynette ignores her. The water isn't helping—in fact, the bleeding is getting worse. It's all over her dress now, the front completely stained with tracks of blood.

"That won't come off," says Bree in her most Bree-like tone.

"I'm not supposed to be here," Lynette points out. "This is all wrong."

Bree reaches out and grasps her hand, forcing it open and taking the ring from her. Lynette tries to steal it back, but she can't, and, horrified, she watches as Bree throws it into the lake.

"We're here today to say goodbye to our dear friend."

But Lynette isn't listening. She dives into the water, desperate to get her ring back, swimming, swimming, swimming deeper and the water is turning red…

She can't see anything, can't breathe, can't think…

And above her she can still hear Bree.

"We're here today to say goodbye to our dear friend."

_**11:00pm**_

Tom wakes first as Lynette very suddenly smacks his shoulder. He looks down in surprise—she's a pretty sound sleeper—and then realizes that something isn't right. She's frowning, her brow furrowed deeply, and making the softest little whining sounds. She's having a nightmare, he realizes, and dimly, he starts to shake her.

"Lynette!" He wiggles her more insistently, and abruptly she wakes, gasping and wrenching up and away from him. "Lynette!" he says again, reaching out to catch her by the arm before she falls out of the bed. "Lynette, it's okay. It was just a dream."

She stills, slowly, her breathing heavy and shallow. She's staring at him almost as if she doesn't recognize him. For a moment, he wonders if she still dreaming somehow, but then she takes a deep, gasping breath and bursts into tears.

"I almost lost you!"

She wraps her arms around him, hugging him so tightly that it almost hurts, but he just pats her back and shushes her with quiet whispers; platitudes that don't really mean much.

"I'm here," he says. "It was just a dream."

"No it wasn't!" She's barely comprehensible, sobs so thick and choking; she sounds like she can barely breathe. "It wasn't! I wasn't!"

"Shh," he soothes, but it doesn't help. She just continues to cry.

_**February 11, 2012 - 12:00am**_

Tom has no idea how long he holds his wife while she bawls. He's never seen her so distraught, and that scares him more than anything. All day, all he has been able to think of is how this is a second chance—a new start; a new opportunity. He's still here for a reason, and that overshadows all the fear.

He realizes now that it's not the same for Lynette.

"I almost lost you," she keeps saying. She's calm now, tears still slipping down her cheeks, but the hysterics gone. "I almost lost you."

He doesn't know what to say. It's true, and that seems to be the only thing she can concentrate on. Not that he's still here. Not that he's okay. Just that she almost lost him.

The problem is that it's the most impossible pain to soothe—a fear that can't be quelled. These are facts Tom knows all too well.

Because he's almost lost her too.

_**1:00am**_

Lynette can't even hold her head up. She has no physical strength left. Nothing to give. She's drained, and she's never felt worse in her life.

Tom rocks her back and forth like she's a child, every so often pressing a kiss into her hair or murmuring something like, "It's okay. I'm here."

She wants to apologize. It's not fair to him. Right now it's her job to be the strong one. It's her job to hold him if he needs to cry. It's her job to comfort him and make him feel better. And right now, she can't do any of that.

"Honey?" says Tom. She's so quiet he probably thinks she's asleep. She swallows hard, trying to find some way to speak, but it's impossible.

Tom just continues to hold her.

_**2:00am**_

"Tom? Are you awake?"

Her husband clears his throat, starting just a little, and, guiltily, she thinks she woke him. "What is it? What's wrong?" he mumbles quickly.

"I need you to promise me something."

For a minute, she only focuses on the rise and fall of Tom's chest: the way it feels beneath her cheek; the steadiness of it; the strength. She needs that.

"Promise me that I can go first."

"What?"

"I need you to promise me that you won't die before me. Okay? Please, promise."

It's irrational, she knows. An impossible vow. But she needs it all the same. She knows what everyone thinks—that's she's the strong one; that she doesn't need Tom; that she can survive. But it's not the truth. Not really.

"I know it sounds crazy," she says, pulling back a little so she can look into his eyes. Immediately, he reaches out to brush the hair from her eyes. "But I can't—I _need_ you. I don't think you know how much."

Tom's eyes soften. Slowly, he leans forward and kisses her. It's brief—soft and gentle and sweet—and she thinks that it may be the only sort of promise he can give her. She nods once and sinks back down, laying her head against his chest again.

His heart is still beating.

**

* * *

A/n: **Wow! I can't believe I got through this one (because there were seriously a few times where I thought I wouldn't make it). This is something I've been meaning to write forever (I've had a few of the sections with Kayla written for months), but I never could find the best way to get it all out of me. I'm so glad that I finally managed to complete it.

Thank you to everyone who managed to read all 32 pages of this fic. I really hope you enjoyed it.

If you have a minute, please let me know what you think. It's the first time I've written the kids at these ages, and I'd be interested to hear if the characterization worked.

Thank you so much!

-Ryeloza


	12. Little Surprises

**Disclaimer: **This isn't mine, and it never will be.

**A/n: **I've had several people request general Bree/Karl romance, so this one is for them. Basically this is just a little scene I think could have possibly happened at some point in season six—fluff, really—and I hope it suffices. So, specifically, this is for **StylishCandy**, **Desperate for the Housewives**, **dhlover** and **BeautifulPeople**, who all asked for a Bree/Karl fic, and really anyone else who wanted to see more.

Also, I was looking at my list of requests tonight, and it's gotten so long! I only intended to have this request round go until the end of March, but that's nine days from now and I still have about twenty or so fics to go. So I've decided to finish up what I have and then call an end to this one. I'll probably do another request round over the summer, so if anyone still has a request to make, I'll just put it on the list for next time. Thank you all so much for asking for fics! I couldn't ask for more wonderful readers!

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Twelve: Little Surprises**

"You've gotta be kidding me!"

Bree stood up a little straighter, trying to ignore Karl's incessant, incredulous laughter and fighting the rise of color in her cheeks. "I don't think it's so funny," she said hotly.

"Oh I don't think it's funny," said Karl. "I'm just shocked."

"It's not so shocking either."

"You just told me you've never eaten an Oreo. I don't know if I've ever heard anything more shocking than that."

Bree shook her head doubtfully. "It's just some generic, store-bought…_snack food_. I'm sure lots of people have never even heard of them. What's really shocking is the number of people who don't know how to bake a cookie from scratch."

"Yeah…You're officially crazy."

"Karl!"

"Oh, don't get me wrong—it's cute as hell. But this is an _Oreo_."

Bree didn't want to think of how worshipfully Karl had just said that. He sounded more reverent in that moment than she'd ever heard him speak about anything, and it was as frightening as it was absurd. As though to rub that fact in her face, Karl plucked one of the cookies out of the package (_packaged cookies_—what was the world coming to?), and stuffed it into his mouth. "Mmm," he groaned. "You don't know what you're missing."

"My cookies have won prizes, Karl. Blue ribbons."

"Yeah, but can they claim to be milk's favorite cookie?"

"What does that even mean?"

Karl shook his head pityingly. "God, you never try anything outside of what you already know, do you?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Grinning, Karl leaned forward and kissed her. He had crumbs of chocolate stuck to the corners of his mouth, and as he pulled back, Bree reached out to rub it away with her thumb. "I'm glad you're here."

"Me too."

Slowly, he stepped forward, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her toward him so their lower bodies were flush. As always, Bree's heart sped up in anticipation. Karl was always so unpredictable, and it was thrilling. There was something slightly dangerous, slightly uncomfortable, and slightly enticing about the unknown, and she had never realized until recently just how much she craved stepping outside of her little corner of the world. Karl made her look at things differently—she wasn't sure any other man she'd been with had ever quite challenged her in that way.

"Bree?" he said, his voice low and rough. Her stomach fluttered in anticipation. "Just try the damn cookie."

"What?"

Karl picked up one of the Oreos, turning it over between his fingers as he held it close to her mouth. "Trust me, you're gonna love it."

She was also quite sure that Karl was the only man in the world who could make a cookie seem sexy.

Slowly, hesitantly, she opened her mouth and bit off the end of the cookie. It was too crunchy—she preferred soft and chewy and moist—but she could hardly argue that it tasted bad. In fact, the chocolate and cream together might almost have been good—an oddly alluring combination.

"Good, right?"

"It's not bad."

"Uh-huh."

"I could make a better one."

Karl laughed and kissed her, his merriment getting lost inside of her mouth. Bree could taste the chocolate on his tongue. Slowly, he pulled back and grinned. "If anyone could, babe, it would be you. You're always surprising me." He kissed her cheek. "Don't stop doing that, okay? I need someone to keep me on my toes."

It was funny, she thought, because she felt the same way about him. For the first time in her life, she was delighting in little surprises. And she was beginning to realize that she never wanted it to end.


	13. Nothing from Nowhere to Happiness

**Disclaimer: **I make absolutely no claim to anything that has to do with this show. Also the title comes from a quote from Mark Twain, to which I also have no claim.

**A/n: **I'm back after a couple of days hiatus (sorry—I've had a bad cold). This one is for **Amy**, who asked for a fic about Lynette finding out she was pregnant with the twins. I interpreted it as when she found out she was pregnant, not the fact that she was actually having twins, and I hope that's okay.

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed. I always appreciate your tremendous feedback.

Enjoy!

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Thirteen: Traveling on Nothing from Nowhere to Happiness**

Someone had painted a giant cactus on the door of the bathroom stall. It was wearing a brown cowboy hat and sunglasses, and someone had painted a talking bubble coming out of its nonexistent mouth. "Howdy," it read. "Try our Grande Margarita. You'll go loco!" Lynette wished she could laugh at the irony—between the fact that the Grande Margarita had driven her in here and the fact that she was fairly certain she was already crazy, it seemed apropos that she was now being mocked by a oversized, cartoon cactus.

This whole situation was absurd. Normal women did not take a home pregnancy test in the bathroom of some offbeat little Mexican restaurant while their husbands sat in a booth getting drunk off of margaritas. The plan had been to wait until tonight when she was home and Tom was asleep and she could take as much time as she needed to compose herself. But then they'd wound up going out to dinner, and Tom had ordered her a margarita and the drink sat there taunting her while she could practically feel the pregnancy test burning her through her purse. Finally she hadn't been able to take it anymore, and she'd escaped to the bathroom where she now sat waiting for a pink plus or minus sign to magically appear on the little stick she'd just peed on.

Of course, the truth was that she really didn't think she was pregnant—this was just a precaution. Just because she'd forgotten her birth control pills while she was on that business trip last month…And she was only two weeks late and two weeks was practically nothing…

They weren't ready for a baby anyway. They'd just started looking into buying a house—and only in a casual way; they probably wouldn't even actually buy one for another six months—and they'd only been married a few months and she'd just been promoted and Tom was still settling into his new job and now was just not the time. Plus they'd agreed; they'd agreed to wait two years to start trying which meant that there was no way that Tom had just accidentally knocked her up. Unplanned pregnancies were for single people who weren't careful with birth control, not a married couple in their thirties who had _agreed to wait two years_.

Not that she was pregnant.

Lynette glanced at her watch and frowned; it had only been three minutes which meant there was still an unbearable four minutes to go. At this point, she really just wanted this over and done. She'd spent the whole day obsessing over the fact that her period hadn't started and replaying over and over in her mind all of the reasons she wasn't pregnant—the same loop of thoughts that still seemed to be running through her head. And if she was really truthful, she'd almost admit that she just didn't want to be pregnant. She didn't want to deal with morning sickness and swelling and tender breasts and heartburn and every other little nuisance that came along with being pregnant. Not to mention that she wouldn't be allowed to drink, and at this moment she wanted nothing more than to go back to the table and down that Grande Margarita as fast as she could. Plus pregnancy inevitably led to a baby, and Lynette couldn't even begin to list all of the ways that she absolutely wasn't ready to deal with a baby. She didn't know anything about taking care of an infant and neither did Tom, and that was just a recipe for disaster.

The door opened and from the sound of it, at least two women walked in, giggling insipidly. And this, Lynette thought miserably, was the reason that every other woman in the country did this in the privacy of her own home because it was so not the moment that you wanted to be listening to two drunken fools' inane tittering.

"You are _sooooo _getting lucky tonight," one of them said loudly. Her friend tried helplessly to shush her, but it a rather weak attempt, especially given that she was still laughing. "What? Did you see the way he's looking at you?"

"You're so bad!"

"He's going to rip your panties off with his teeth!"

Lynette groaned audibly, leaning forward and resting her forehead against her knee. If these two only knew that that kind of thing was exactly what led to her current situation, they wouldn't be laughing so hard. From outside the stall, there came a knock on the door, and then one of the girls called, "Hey, are you okay in there?"

Maybe she'd groaned a little louder than she'd thought.

"Not really," she said, knowing that the girls would take it entirely the wrong way.

"Oh—It's not the guacamole is it?"

"No."

"Thank God! I ate like, a pound of it."

Lynette shut her eyes and sighed. "Look, I don't mean to be rude, but can you just go away please?"

There was the sound of something falling on the floor and then a shriek, and then both girls erupted in giggles again. Just as Lynette was about to do something drastic—maybe yell fire—she heard the bathroom door open again and then, inexplicably, Tom's voice. "Excuse me ladies," he said, her head snapping up as she heard him.

"You can't be in here. This is the women's room."

"Yeah, I know, and it's lovely, really, but I'm just looking for my wife."

_Don't, don't, don't_, she thought desperately, and then, of course, the girl said, "Oooh. Yeah. She's sick or something. Maybe you need to take her home."

"Uh, yeah, okay. Thanks. Now, would you mind, uh, maybe just giving me a minute…"

Tom continued to babble awkwardly to the girls, but the sound seemed more like water rushing in her ears. Out of the corner of her eye, she'd glanced at the test, just catching a flash of pink before doing a double take and holding it up. A plus sign. Plus. Positive.

She was pregnant.

Outside, the clacking of heels on linoleum sounded and then Lynette heard the door open and shut, signaling that she and Tom were alone; a moment later, he tapped lightly on the stall. "Sweetie? Are you okay?"

Lynette stared at the door—that stupid cactus still teasing her—and then suddenly her vision blurred and the whole world seemed to spin in circles and there was just absolutely no way to let out everything she was feeling except to laugh. Barely in control of herself, she stood, unlocking the door and stepping out of the stall. Tom was looking at her uncertainly, brow furrowed and eyes foggy with concern. "What's wrong?"

Lynette shrugged, still laughing, tears streaming down her face. "I'm pregnant," she said, the words foreign as they came out of her mouth. "I—We're going to have a baby."

"What?" His voice came out barely above a whisper and he cleared his throat. "Are you—Really?"

"I know this wasn't planned," she babbled, everything she'd been thinking all day trying to find a way to fall out of her. "And we're not ready—We don't even have a room—And the money is going to be tight—We said we'd wait—"

"I don't care," said Tom, cutting her off. She blinked, staring up at him in surprise. "This is—We're going to have a _baby_!"

She nodded, not trusting her own ability to speak, and Tom stepped forward and hugged her tightly, actually picking her up off of the floor and spinning her in a circle. When he set her down, his hands went straight to her face, brushing her hair away and cupping her cheeks, and then he kissed her. It was one of those rare moments where she could physically feel how much he loved her—like she was inside of him somehow, experiencing his joy with him—and she thought she might burst from feeling absolutely too much. When she pulled back, Tom was grinning like a fool, his own tears shining in his eyes.

Unable to stop herself, Lynette smiled, leaning in and burying her face in Tom's shoulder. They were going to have a baby.

And despite everything, all she could think about was how happy she was.


	14. Property of Lynette Scavo

**Disclaimer: **Aw, it's still not mine.

**A/n: **Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I'm glad you're enjoying these!

This one is for **Leanne**, who asked for a fic about Tom and Lynette out on his boat. Takes place pre-series. Very fluffy and a little silly (but it's Sunday night and I'm back to work tomorrow—I need a little levity). I hope you all enjoy!

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Fourteen: Property of Lynette Scavo**

The sun was high in the sky by the time they dropped anchor, and despite the breeze, it was stiflingly hot. Lynette had already stripped down to her bikini, and Tom sat watching as she rubbed sun-block over her stomach and chest. "I don't know," she was saying, unaware of how his eyes had glazed over at the sight of her touching herself, no matter how innocently. "I think this is the last day for the two piece."

"Huh?" Tom blinked and forced his eyes to follow the motion of her hand as it drifted to her arm. "Why?"

Lynette shook her head, probably rolling her eyes underneath her sunglasses. "Well for one thing, I think my boobs have grown. Do they even look like they fit into this top anymore?"

"Um…"

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Besides, I'm starting to show. And it feels weird to be pregnant and still walking around in a bikini."

"I don't know if you've ever looked sexier."

Lynette laughed despite the fact that he'd been utterly sincere, and tossed the tube of lotion toward him. "I'll do your back if you do mine."

Before Tom could agree, she stood, stretching and taking a second to twist her hair up on top of her head. They'd spent so much time out on the boat already this summer that her hair had brightened into an even purer blonde; in the bright light it shone like gold. In profile he could see that she was right about how much her stomach had grown—even at just eight weeks there was the obvious proof that she carried their children inside of her. But how she didn't realize just how sexy she was, was beyond Tom's scope of comprehension.

Lynette sat down on his lap, scooting forward until she was balanced on his knees, and Tom squirted a generous amount of the sun-block onto his hands. Gently, he started to rub it onto her back. Her skin was warm from the heat of the sun, and, as always, so, so soft that he thought he could touch her forever without ever tiring of it.

"Mmm," she purred, tipping her head forward just slightly. "That feels great."

"Oh yeah?" Tom leaned forward and kissed the base of her neck, moving his hands to stroke her lower back. Slowly, he brushed his lips across her shoulder, delighting in the soft little keening sound she made. Then, to his momentary chagrin, she turned around so she was facing him and pulled his t-shirt off. "My turn," she said, tossing his shirt aside and taking the tube from him. Tom didn't protest as she drizzled the lotion across his chest; it felt cool against his too-warm skin, though the relief from the heat was only temporary. A second later, Lynette reached out and began to massage the sun-block all across his chest, her hands small and strong as they skated over his skin. By the time she moved down to his abs, Tom had to touch her, reaching around to fiddle with the strings that held the top of her bathing suit up.

"Do I need to remind you that we're not the only people on this lake?"

"Oh come on," needled Tom, sitting up straighter as she scraped her nails over his stomach. "You said yourself that this is barely covering anything anyway."

"Ha ha." Lynette stood, and Tom frowned. "Turn around so I can do your back."

Tom shifted to the side so his back was visible, leaving her enough room to sit down behind him on the seat. He hardly noticed the strangely long pause that followed—his mind was still turning over ways to get her to take off her top—but when she finally reached out to touch him, he was surprised to feel only the tip of her index finger glide over him. Against all odds, he shivered, the hair on the back of his neck standing up on end. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Having some fun."

"Uh…"

Lynette giggled. "Shh. I'm trying to concentrate."

Tom tried to turn his head as though he'd be able to see what she was doing, but Lynette put one hand firmly on the back of his head. Frustrated, he groaned. "What—Are you writing something?"

"Maybe."

"Do you really expect me to get a sunburn just so you can write something on my back? What are you even spelling?"

"Just staking my claim."

"Lynette—"

"Do you remember," she interrupted, clearly trying to distract him (as if that ever worked!), "on our honeymoon when I wore those stupid panties just for you?"

"Those 'Property of Tom Scavo' ones?" He shut his eyes, allowing himself a moment of delighted reminiscence. "Yeah," he said dreamily. "Those were hot. Er—In a totally outdated, sexist kind of way."

"Tom…It's okay. They were hot. I could tell by the way you ripped them off of me."

"So…?"

"So I'm just returning the favor."

"What—What _exactly_ are you doing?" he asked, though he could now make out the distinctive curve of an 'S' as she continued to draw on him. Lynette chuckled wickedly and leaned forward to kiss the back of his neck. "Come on, baby," she said in that horribly sexy voice that always got him to agree to anything. "You're not going to tell me that you mind everyone knowing that you're all mine?" Her finger moved in a complete circle and then she wrapped her arms around him from behind, squeezing tightly.

"And are you going to return the favor?"

"Well I am carrying your children. And as I pointed out, they're already making it obvious to the world how much I belong to you."

"You're going to hold that against me forever, aren't you?"

"Uh-huh," she laughed, pressing her lips against his shoulder. "That's a lifetime of IOUs, my friend."

"Damn," he sighed, turning to face her and pressing a hand to her stomach. "You guys better be worth it."

Lynette was still giggling when he pulled her in for a kiss.


	15. Tears Blur the World into Recognition

**Disclaimer: ** This absolutely isn't mine.

**A/n: **This is for **damnfinecupofcoffee**, who asked for a story that looked at Paul's state of mind. Basically just the meandering thoughts of Paul. Takes place in season seven, some time after the riot/shooting. Reviews are always welcomed and always appreciated.

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Fifteen: Tears Blur the World (into Recognition)**

Paul doesn't know why he stays here.

Once upon a time he told himself it was for revenge (can't even do that right—or maybe it went too well—he can't see if he is the villain or victim anymore), but the truth is that when they came with their apologies and pardons and monetary compensation, the only place Paul could think to go was home.

As if this is home anymore.

_Why am I still here?_

He hates the people. He hates their phony smiles and polite laughter while they're talking behind closed doors always gossip, gossip, gossip can't keep anything to themselves. He thought it would be better when they glared at him (_show me what you really think)_. It's not. It's worse. They can't see him as anything but a monster now—they're the ones that made him this way (_they're not_)—and sometimes he wants to cry until they realize that he's still a human being whose heart breaks every day from the unbearable strain of just being him.

_You would be the same way if it had been you. If that monster had driven your loved one to suicide…_

Most days he aches all the way down to his bones with the desire to just blurt out the truth. Scream from the rooftops that he killed her. He killed Martha Huber because she killed Mary Alice and why can't they remember that _his wife_ is the real victim? He did it for her. He did it because the effort of living without Mary Alice is an interminable burden that hasn't eased with time, and even if Martha had escaped his wrath all those years ago, he'd still pursue her now. Do it again. No regrets. God, he has no regrets.

How can they have such love for one murderer but not another? Hypocrites. He hates them.

He hates the perfect little houses with their perfect little lawns. He hates watching the children run down the street, screaming and laughing and living without any burdens in their little lives. He hates watching people drive off to work in the morning and come back at night, kissing their wives because they can and never, ever worrying that one day it will be the last time. That one day they will come home and their wives will be dead and the world will collapse upon itself like a dying star. They don't live with that fear, and sometimes Paul still thinks…

_If I could just make them understand that…_

It would be so easy…

After all, he came back for revenge…

…

He doesn't know why he stays here.

He still has money left. He could retire to a beach somewhere. Live in the sunshine and spend time with people who aren't two-faced (do such a people exist?). Forget everything. Forget this street and these people and his ungrateful son and the disappointment and all the wasted years and revenge and pain and what he did.

Forget what she did.

Forget himself.

…It would take more courage than he thinks he has.

Because the truth is that sometimes if he squints he can see the blurry outline of a life he used to have. He can see barbeques with people he genuinely loved, laughing and having fun. He can see Zach learning to walk and talk and ride a bike and running around this neighborhood without a care in the world. He can see himself watering the lawn and driving off to work and living in the secure knowledge that he has everything he wants.

And he sees her.

Smiling.

Happy.

Loved.

Alive.

And he thinks that maybe, just maybe, someday he'll stare hard enough at this world around him and the lines will cease to exist between then and now and everything will be the way it was. The way it should still be.

A fool's dream.

He is a fool.

He lives with ghosts. They're all he has now. And maybe he's one too. Maybe he died the day that she gave up.

Maybe he died the day that she stopped loving him.

_No one loves you…_

Paul doesn't know why he stays here.

But he'll haunt this place forever because he can't leave.


	16. Pause

**Disclaimer: **This is still not mine.

**A/n: Meg** asked for a fic about Lynette being jealous of Tom's interactions with another woman. There was a suggestion of making it about Annabel, but I feel like the show spent so much time on that that I'm not sure what else I could contribute. So instead I set this during the six month gap between seasons two and three and made it about Norah (with a bit of a twist). I hope it works.

Enjoy! Please let me know what you think!

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Sixteen: Pause**

The weeks leading up to Kayla's birthday were an absolute nightmare. Every other day there was a phone call from Norah—where was the best place to buy a cake?; could he tell her where they'd found those invitations for the twins' birthday?; what did he think the weather would be like in early April?—and most of them purposely came at night, after she knew Lynette would be home. No matter how many times he begged her to phone him during the day, she always seemed to have an excuse why she couldn't (something Tom couldn't begin to understand, seeing that she only worked part time and was always off by four).

The frank annoyance was beginning to show on Lynette's face: a constantly furrowed brow, a perpetual frown, and lately eye rolls that were becoming less and less subtle. And as much as he wanted to be sympathetic, sometimes it was hard not to simply grab Lynette by the shoulders and remind her that _he_ was the one stuck dealing with Norah directly most of the time. If she was obnoxious by proxy, direct contact was undoubtedly worse.

Yet here they were, mere hours from the slumber party extravaganza, and Tom had managed to get through this without any major meltdown. They were having a little family party for Kayla tonight—to which Norah had, of course, invited herself—and then it would all be done. In fact, with only presents and cake to go, Tom was officially calling an hour tops until the nightmare was over.

He'd never been so excited for his child's birthday to end. And that included any party that had a guest list primarily composed of small, rambunctious boys.

"This is just so sweet," Norah gushed in that scarily fake voice she used in front of the kids. She led Kayla to the couch by her shoulders and forcibly pushed her down next to Tom, and then plopped down on her other side. "Kayla's first birthday that we're really together as a family."

Tom chuckled nervously—it was becoming his default response to anything Norah said, particularly in these instances where she rubbed in the fact that he'd missed the first eleven years of her life. It kept the anger at bay. "Yeah," he agreed; what else was there possibly to say?

"Of course, we could have celebrated on Kayla's real birthday if she hadn't insisted on a sleepover."

This was quite possibly the hundredth time Norah had said this since Kayla had first announced she wanted to have a sleepover with her girl friends. Tom got the eerie feeling that in some way, Norah was mostly upset that she wouldn't get to openly one-up Lynette in the party-throwing arena. None of this nonsense had even started until after the twins' party anyway.

"Mom, I'm going to be twelve—I'm not a baby."

"Shh, sweetie. The grown-ups are talking."

Kayla rolled her eyes. "Can I open my presents now?"

"Yes," said Tom, butting in before Norah could come up with some way to drag this out indefinitely. "Let's do that."

Eagerly, Kayla reached out and snatched a present off of the coffee table. At the same moment, Lynette came back into the room, Penny in her arms, and casually handed her off to Tom before picking up the remote and turning off the television. The boys groaned, but when they glanced back at Lynette, she gave them a glare that left no question that they had to pay attention to Kayla.

"Are we _settled_?" snapped Norah as Lynette calmly sat down on the chair.

The only response she received was Kayla ripping into the present.

There wasn't much. He and Lynette had only been able to splurge a little considering how strapped they were financially, but Kayla seemed genuinely pleased despite the snide asides Norah made about each gift. It just further reinforced what Tom had realized over the past few months: how much he'd never really appreciated Lynette's relationship with their kids until he'd seen Norah interact with Kayla. The difference was stark, and there were times that he wished he could just steal Kayla away, cutting Norah's poison from her life completely.

"You'll get even more tomorrow," Norah said as Kayla stacked the last box on top of the small mound in front of her. "I put presents required on the invitations."

"Of course you did."

Tom shot Lynette a look, but Norah didn't seem to have heard her. She was too busy rooting through her purse, cooing in a sickening sing-song voice, "But I have one more surprise for you!" From her bag, Norah pulled a small, brightly wrapped box and handed it over. "It's from me and your dad! For our grown-up girl."

"Really?"

"_Really_?" said Tom simultaneously. Norah reached over and squeezed his hand where it rested on the back of the couch.

"Of course. We picked it out together."

For the life of him, Tom could never remember picking out a gift with Norah. There had been about eight calls concerning the topic of "Do you think Kayla would like this?", to which his response had been less and less restrained versions of, "You know her better than I do." But how that led to this moment…At times Norah's delusion was actually comical. Repressing a laugh, Tom glanced at Lynette, eager to share that small moment of mirth at Norah's expense, but he was met with an entirely different response.

Lynette's face was naked with jealousy—a frank, disdainful, pained envy etched through her face, shining in her eyes, obvious in the purse of her lips. He'd seen that look more times than he cared to count over the years, but how she could be jealous now—of _Norah_…It was ridiculous. Annoyed (at Norah, Lynette, himself, the whole situation), he snatched his hand away from Norah as though he'd been burned, but when he looked back at Lynette, she'd settled her face back into a more neutral expression. But Tom knew he had seen it; it was impossible to forget, and all he could think was that he had to somehow make Lynette understand that there was nothing to be jealous of.

Suddenly, Kayla threw her arms around him, reminding him just where he was and what was going on. "Thanks, Dad!" she said brightly, and out of the corner of his eye he saw that she'd unwrapped the present—whatever it was.

"Sure," he said uncomfortably. "Happy birthday."

The rest of the night seemed to drag on without end, with stilted conversation as they ate chocolate cake and an awkward attempt on Norah's part to convince him to come help her decorate in the morning. Tom had finally snapped, "We'll see," which had been enough to satisfy no one, earning him glares from both Norah and Lynette. Even once Norah and Kayla finally left, they still had to get the kids through their bedtime routine—a feat only made harder by the late sugar intake—and it wasn't until Lynette joined him on clean-up duty in the kitchen that they finally had a minute alone.

Even after waiting all night to get a moment with his wife, Tom now realized he had no idea where to start. Somehow blurting out, "How could you possibly be jealous of _her_?" seemed like a bad way to go.

"I can handle this," said Lynette, speaking before he got his thoughts together. "If you want to relax."

Tom looked at her cautiously, handing over a plate for her to load into the dishwasher. Like all of their conversations as of late, there was something strained in her voice. He got the impression that she was angry with him, but he didn't know why or what he needed to apologize for. "It's okay," he said slowly. Inexplicably, the idea of breaking the rhythm of their routine made him want to cry. "Thanks…for tonight. All this."

"Uh-huh."

"I think Kayla had a good time."

"Good."

Lynette shut the dishwasher, flicking the switch to turn it on with a little more force than necessary, and then picked up a washcloth and turned toward the table, still avoiding his gaze. As she passed, Tom reached out and grasped her wrist, desperate to get her to understand. "You know you have nothing to worry about with Norah, right?"

"I do nothing but worry about that woman. She's insane."

"Yeah, but I mean nothing is going on between us."

That, finally, made Lynette meet his gaze, but to his surprise, she only looked mildly confused. "I know," she said. "Although Norah is trying her hardest."

"But I'm not interested. At all. And I would never—"

"Tom. I know."

"Okay."

Slowly, he let go of her arm, watching her tentatively as she started to wipe down the table. The tension hadn't left her—he could still read it in every move she made—and an uneasy worry lingered inside of him. "It's just," he said, unable to let it go; he thought that maybe that was part of the problem, he'd been letting too much go lately, "I got the impression tonight that you were…jealous. Of Norah."

"I'm not jealous of Norah."

"Okay."

Lynette looked up, obviously annoyed by the lack of conviction in his agreement. She crossed her arms, and Tom winced. "Do you really want to get into this?"

Probably not.

"Yes," he lied.

"Fine. I'm jealous. But not because I think Norah's going to steal you away."

"Then what—"

"I'm jealous because she has a part of you now that I never thought I'd have to share!" Lynette shrugged in that helpless way she had when she saw the situation as futile, her eyes welling with tears. "She's the mother of your child, Tom. And that's—You're going to be bonded to her because of that for the rest of your life."

"But that doesn't mean—"

"It means everything!" She threw the dishtowel onto the table, shaking her head. "I'm not—For all of these years, no matter what else was going on in our lives, I knew that being parents was this special thing just between us. And now that's gone, and I'm just…I hate that."

"Lynette, that's crazy."

"It's not, Tom. No. Think about it. How would you feel if you suddenly found out that I had a child with another man? Huh?"

Tom blinked, the idea so ludicrous and foreign that it was impossible to imagine. But then, until three months ago, it was the same way for Lynette, and he had shattered her world into the thousand pieces. Maybe that was the point. But he still thought it was insane.

"Norah is nothing," he said helplessly. "I hate the way she talks to Kayla. I don't think she's a good mother. And whenever she talks about Kayla being ours, all I can think about is how she kept her from me for the first eleven years of her life! Do you get that? Do you get how pissed off I am at her?"

"You wouldn't be able to tell, considering the way you bend over backwards for her!"

"Because I'm terrified that she's going to take Kayla and disappear! God, I don't understand…She may be Kayla's mother, and I may be her father, but we are in no way parents."

Lynette shook her head angrily. "That's barely a distinction, and you know it."

"No. It's not. You and I are a team. We are raising our kids together. With Kayla I'm just watching from the sidelines while Norah makes every decision. And I don't understand how you can possibly be jealous of that. I just don't."

"I know." Lynette blinked, her tears spilling over and running down her cheeks, but she didn't bother to wipe them away. "Maybe that's the problem."

"Lynette—"

She averted her eyes, turning and walking away from him. Tom ached to go after her, to grab her and hold her and somehow make her understand that Norah meant nothing to him. The most he could manage to do was call after her, "You know I love you even more because you're the mother of my kids. And you are the only woman in the world I will ever say that about."

For a moment, she paused, back to him, like the words had actually gotten through whatever anger and jealousy and pain she held inside. Then she continued up the stairs, a million unspoken words still between them.

And all Tom could do was hold on to the hope in that pause.


	17. Girl Land

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**A/n: ** This is for **Louise**, who asked for a Tom/Lynette fluff fic. I had an incredibly long day, so I needed something warm and fuzzy to cheer me up. I hope you guys enjoy this one. It takes place either during or right after season four.

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Seventeen: Girl-Land**

The moment Lynette walked into the house she noticed the makeover of her dining room. The chairs had been moved away from the table, lined up in front of the doorway with a doll sitting primly on each one, and covering the table were about five different colored blankets of various lengths and textures that trailed all the way down to the floor. She shook her head fondly at the sight and slipped past the painted-stare guard of Tillie and Bonzo the Bear to crouch down and lift the corner of a blanket. Beneath the table she found her husband lying on the floor, their daughter curled against him fast asleep. They were surrounded by what looked like every pillow in the house and probably just about all of the other animals and dolls that Penny owned. "Hi," she whispered, intrigue and amusement equally present in her voice. "What's going on here?"

Tom glanced away from the _Angelina Ballerina _book he held, eyeing her slyly. "I'm sorry," he said. "I think I need the secret password before I can let you in."

"Ah."

"I'll give you a clue. It rhymes with smurple."

Lynette grinned. "Purple?"

"Ding, ding, ding. We have a winner. And you know what that means?"

"I get to enter the fort?"

"Uh, you get to enter _Girl-Land_, and give your husband a kiss."

Chuckling softly, Lynette crawled under the table toward Tom, leaning in to give him a quick kiss before she knelt back on her legs. "So," she said, looking around the small space, "Girl-Land, huh?"

"No boys allowed."

"Uh-huh. So you're the exception?"

"Daddies don't count."

"Of course."

Tom smiled, setting the book down on his stomach and reaching out to rest his hand on her thigh. "I think she's going through a phase. She told me today that her friend Ashlyn doesn't have any brothers."

"Yeah, well Ashlyn's mom lectured me for about twenty minutes about the benefits of a ten-year gap between kids, so you know…in five years, Ashlyn better watch out."

Tom laughed silently, a strained effort to keep from disturbing Penny. The sight of them together, their daughter's blonde curls spilling over his arm, was so adorable it almost made her ache. Under her gaze, Tom's expression slowly softened, and he tapped his thumb against her knee. "I should warn you, she asked me for a little sister today."

"No."

"Yes. And don't give me that look. It's a natural question for a kid her age."

Lynette shook her head. "Yeah. I remember when I asked for a little sister. And then I wound up with Lydia." She sighed. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'You never know. Accidents do happen.'"

"Tom!" She slapped his leg and he gave a faux "ow," his face shining with mirth.

"Jeez, it was a joke. Crazy woman."

"You're going to jinx us. Look at our record for 'accidents.'"

Tom continued to grin at her, clearly delighting in her obvious overreaction. It almost made her want to get pregnant just to prove him wrong. Almost.

"Look, I just explained to her that she was our last baby."

"And she was cool with that?"

"No. She said she'd ask you. That's why I'm warning you."

"Okay. I'll just tell her that odds are she'll end up with another brother."

"Oh," said Tom, cocking his head to the side as though the thought had never entered his mind. "Right."

Lynette shook her head affectionately, shifting so she could lie down and rest her head against Tom's chest. He wrapped his arm around her, fingers lightly traipsing up and down her arm as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. It was strangely comfortable, snuggled against him on a floor of pillows in the dim, warm nest he'd made, and she shut her eyes.

"Should I read you a story?" he asked softly.

"Mm-hmm."

She felt him reach over her, picking up the book that still lay on his stomach, and he cleared his throat. "_Angelina's Baby Sister_," he read, and Lynette snorted, turning and burying her face against him.

"This isn't going to go away, is it?"

"I tried to tell you…"


	18. Somday Too Soon

**Disclaimer: **I pinky swear that this isn't mine.

**A/n: **This is for **Bethany, **who asked for an m-rated, Tom and Lynette fic. Takes place pre-series and is (obviously) rated m. Read at your own risk.

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed. You guys are wonderful.

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Eighteen: (Someday) Too Soon**

It's the sun that wakes her up as it streams through the slats in the blinds, making soft lines of golden orange light across the bedspread and gently coaxing her from sleep. She opens her eyes slowly, disoriented at first because she's still not used to waking up at his place, and for a moment she can't put the pieces together in her mind—the shadowed shapes of strange furniture and faint scent of unfamiliar fabric softener, cologne and sweat tickling her nose as she snuggles deeper into the bed. When it finally connects, she becomes aware of him beside her, arm hooked over her hip in a way that makes her feel like she belongs and brings a smile to her face. But with the sunlight comes that niggling thought that she should get up and get moving—go home and separate herself from this place (from him) because in the back of her mind it all seems too soon. Too soon to be smiling because he's holding her when she wakes up and too soon to be this comfortable in his bed and too soon to be this happy.

Slowly, she rolls away from him toward the edge of the bed, sitting up and lazily scanning the floor for her clothes. In the cool morning, her skin prickles with goose-pimples, the little hairs on her arm standing _en pointe. _And she tells herself that this is why she becomes aware of him the moment he wakes up—because her skin suddenly warms as though she's stepped out into the sun—and maybe that's why she's still, not bothering to reach for her clothes.

They don't speak as he kneels behind her; his arms slip around her thin frame, one forearm grazing the bottom of her breasts, and then he starts to kiss her, lips pressing against her shoulder and the back of her neck so lightly that it's like the ghost of another kiss. She shivers at the sensation, tipping her head back to rest against his shoulder, and he looks down at her with eyes dark and loving and just a little dangerous. She thinks that if he wanted to, he could make her his forever, possessing her in a way that she's never let anyone even think about before, and it's scary and thrilling all at once; a thought that makes butterflies flutter in her stomach.

He leans in, capturing her top lip between his, moving so, so slowly that she aches for more, and she reaches up to lay her hand against the back of his neck. Already she can feel him pressing against her back, firm and insistent, a contradiction to how unhurriedly he's touching her. She moans as his tongue brushes her lip, a gentle movement that he follows by lightly biting her, tugging at her lip just long enough to make her throb, and she turns to face him.

For a long moment, they just soak in the sight of one another. She loves the planes of his body already—the strength of his arms; the smooth, masculine look of his chest; the length and thickness of his cock, the sight of which makes her tremble in anticipation of what's to come. In the early morning, in this prolonged silence neither of them will break, there is something so soft and young about him, an innocence and tenderness that almost makes her want to cry. He's precious to her, like she's discovered this beautiful, wonderful, amazing man that has somehow slipped by for so many years without ever really belonging to another woman. Maybe it's a ridiculous thing to think, but there's something about the way he looks at her—the way he lets her look at him—that makes her positive that this is something special.

She doesn't fall head over heels. And that's what scares her.

Forcefully, he tugs her into his lap, and she runs her hand up his chest, over his shoulder to the back of his neck. He touches her, finally, reverently. One of his hands is wrapped around the small of her back, holding her in place, while the other peruses her body. His fingers trail over her, running circles around her nipples, lightly traipsing the modest swell of her bosom, teasing her with a feather-light touch. Then he continues down, scaling her ribs, dipping down and tickling her in that oh-so-sensitive spot by her hip, playing over her stomach, and then slowly descending to press against her where she's already wet and pulsating for him. He smiles as she moans, watches her as her breathing grows more ragged; she can feel her body glowing, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on her skin as the light outside grows brighter. But instead of going faster, his fingers slow their pace, and then he removes them completely, making her whimper in frustration.

He leans in, kisses her neck and then lays his forehead against her shoulder, and her body seems to still all movement in anticipation. She can feel something coming, something more, something…

"I think it might be too soon to say this," he says quietly, his voice low and still rusty from sleep, "but I'm pretty completely in love with you already."

Her heartbeat speeds up, and it's like she's aware of everything—every nerve in her body, every breath she takes, every tiny noise that comes from the outside world. It is too soon; it's all too soon. Because how is it possible for him to be in love with her so quickly?

She barely trusts her own feelings, let alone someone else's.

He pulls back, cups her face with his big hands, thumbs stroking her cheekbones, and looks at her so seriously that she can barely breathe. "Does that scare you?"

"Yes."

He nods. "It scares me too. But I look at you, and I just want to hold you forever. I look at you, and I see everything in the world that matters to me, now and for the rest of my life."

She's overwhelmed, unable to speak or respond, but he seems to realize that her silence isn't rejection—just the opposite, in fact. There's too much inside of her trying to get out at once, and it's impossible. The love and the fear and the excitement and the pleasure and the exquisite anguish all warring inside of her, inexpressible. She's scared—so, so scared—but mostly because it feels so right and new and different.

She wonders if she's ever really been in love before this. Because this must be love—complicated, messy, perfect, terrifying love.

She kisses him because she doesn't know what else to do. She can't say it yet, but all the passion she feels spills into that kiss as she moves her lips and tongue against his, pulling him closer, closer, closer and giving him everything she can. He grasps her hips, eager now, manipulating her body until the tip of his dick moves inside of her, and then she shifts her hips, driving him deeper into her until she can feel his balls pressing against her. Just the feeling of him so hot and thick and full inside of her makes her quiver, and she breaks their kiss to rest her forehead against his.

"You're amazing," he whispers. "And beautiful and brilliant and absolutely everything."

She laughs shakily, kisses the bridge of his nose. Then, finally, she's ready, and she begins to move, twisting her hips in a circular motion against him, and squeezing him as tightly as she can. He indulges her, lets her set the pace, lets her be in charge, and she's so grateful because this is the only way she has to express herself in this moment. The only way to say all the words that just can't be spoken.

As she begins to move faster, his hands find her hips, helping her find her rhythm, encouraging her with his touch and words. "Do you know how gorgeous you look?" he asks. "Riding me. Lips parted, hair wild. You are unbelievably sexy. And you feel amazing, so hot and wet. Just squeeze me a little tighter, baby—you feel so good."

It's like his words are fueling her on as much of the feeling of him inside of her, like somehow he's making love to all of her—body, mind and soul—and she can barely stand how much of himself he's able to give her.

"God, I love you. I love you so much."

Too much.

She squeezes her eyes shut, back arching, body tightening in absolute ecstasy as his fingers find her clit again, urging her on, prolonging every moment of pleasure indefinitely. As she clenches down on him, so, so, so tight, she can feel him stiffen, groaning as he thrusts inside of her, finding his own release.

This is love, she thinks. All of this. Every moment, touch, feeling, sensation, word, kiss…

Someday soon she'll be able to tell him.


	19. Penguin Print

**Disclaimer: **It's not mine.

**A/n: **This is for **T**, who requested a Gaby story. This takes place sometime after season 5; you can leave it open as to when. Just a bit of enjoyable fluff. I hope you like it.

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Nineteen: Penguin Print**

Gaby groaned, removing her somewhat ostentatious red hat from her head and fanning herself with it. It was ungodly hot today, the air humid and sticky (it was doing horrific things to her hair, which was the whole point of the hat to begin with), and to make matters worse, her four inch heels were killing her feet. Tragically, she couldn't even wince as she walked along because Carlos had already berated her once for leaving the house dressed this way. "Completely impractical," he'd called her ensemble—as if fashion was ever supposed to be practical.

"Mom, let's _go_!" whined Juanita, tugging at her hand hard enough that Gaby almost tripped and fell.

"Yeah, okay. Can you just give Mommy a minute, maybe?" she asked, looking around desperately for a bench. "How is there no place to sit in this god-forsaken jungle?"

Juanita rolled her eyes like a pro. "It's a zoo, not a jungle! Let's go!"

Unfortunately for Juanita, though, Gaby had spotted a bench, and in a surge of excitement, dragged her daughter along behind her until she was able to collapse on the seat. Juanita put her hands on her hips and gave a long-suffering sigh that Gaby chose to ignore. If there was one trait she and her daughter shared, however, it was a persistent hatred of being disregarded, so Juanita followed up her groan with a foot stomp and a growl. Really, she kind of fit right in with the atmosphere.

"Daddy said to meet him at the penguins. I wanna see the penguins!"

"Will you relax? I just need a minute off of my feet."

Groaning, Juanita flopped down on the bench next to her and crossed her arms over her chest. "Why do you always have to ruin everything?"

"Why do you always insist on going to ridiculous places like the zoo? Why don't you ever insist on going to a nice spa?"

"Because that's boring."

"The zoo is boring."

"Is not!"

"Is too!"

"Is not!"

In a strangely insightful moment, Gaby managed to remember that she was the adult here and she wasn't about to win this argument. Still, it took effort to let it go, especially when Juanita grinned triumphantly. "Fine," she sighed belligerently. "Tell me. What is so great about the zoo?"

"The animals!"

"They smell."

"And the ice cream sandwiches shaped like animals!"

"Just as good as the bar-shaped ones at home."

"And the train!"

"Isn't even running today."

Juanita swung her legs back and forth and shook her head indignantly. "Okay," she snapped. "What's so great about the_ spa_?"

"Uh massages."

"Boring."

"And facial peals."

"Boring."

"And mud baths!"

"Really?" asked Juanita innocently. "They let you take a bath in the mud? Like the elephants?"

Gaby scowled. "Has anyone ever told you you're a smart ass?"

"No. But Daddy called you that the other day."

"Touché."

They sat in silence for a moment, Gaby still desperately trying to cool herself down, and Juanita staring out into the crowd of people bustling around in cheap sandals and t-shirts with cartoon characters on them. If any of those makeover shows ever needed the right place to come, she thought, the zoo would be it.

"You know," said Gaby slyly, "they'll paint your toenails at the spa too."

"You do that at home."

"Yeah, but I can't paint on a cool animal print. You know, so you could look like a leopard or a zebra."

"Or a penguin?"

"Uh…Sure. I guess."

Juanita gave her a coy glance. "Well maybe the spa wouldn't be totally stupid."

"Yeah?"

"But you still have to take me to see the penguins."

Gaby groaned.


	20. Double Entendre

**Disclaimer: **Nope. It's still not mine.

**A/n: **This is for **Coco Saugatuck**, who asked for a fic where Bree almost stays with Orson, but then chooses to go with Karl instead. Takes place in season six, during the affair.

Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed. I'm very grateful for any feedback, and I appreciate anyone who takes a minute to let me know what you think.

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Twenty: Double Entendre**

As her cell phone began to ring, Bree threw an anxious glance back at the door and discreetly slipped into the bathroom to take the call. While she wasn't one to dissect the nuances of having an affair—it felt too intentional, too malicious, too typical that way—she couldn't help but think that it would be much simpler if her husband wasn't unemployed and constantly home. Quietly shutting the door, she hit the talk button and murmured, "Hello?"

"I'm naked and holding a bottle of massage oil with your name on it."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh crap. Did I call the wrong person again?"

Bree's eyebrows shot into her hairline. "Again?"

"Bree?"

"Yes, it's Bree!" she hissed, and she sneaked another cautious peek at the door. "Why are you calling?"

"Uh…I think we covered that. Seriously, babe, there's also chocolate covered strawberries. When are you getting here?"

"We agreed to meet at noon," she said. She shivered with the same wicked thrill that she got every time she mentioned these clandestine afternoon hookups—they were so naughty and impulsive. After all, who had sex in the middle of the day?

"Yeah. So?"

"So I'll be there at noon. Don't worry, I'm very punctual."

"Ooh, I know you are."

Bree frowned, not sure what the double entendre meant, but before she could question him—or at least chuckle, pretending she got it—she heard the bedroom door open and Orson called her name. "I've got to go," she said quickly, and without waiting for Karl to respond, she hung up. A second later, Orson rapped on the bathroom door. "Honey?" he called, "are you in there?"

"Bathrooms are private for a reason, Orson."

Orson sighed, but Bree ignored him and turned to the mirror to begin to pin up her hair. Karl had expressed a distinct pleasure in watching her undo her hair and shaking it free of its confines. It was one turn-on that she felt very comfortable indulging.

"Bree?"

She shut her eyes for a second, praying for patience. "What?"

"When you're done, I need to talk to you." There was a pause, and then, beleaguered, he added, "Please?"

Bree glanced at her watch; she only had thirty minutes. As much as she didn't want to, she didn't have the time to waylay Orson today. Wearily, she said, "Fine. Come in."

The door opened without hesitation, almost as if Orson was afraid she'd change her mind if he wasn't fast enough, but then he didn't actually enter the room. Instead, he stood in the doorway, lingering in that way she loathed. "What is it?" she asked impatiently.

She could tell Orson was trying to catch her eye in the mirror, but she kept hers fixed resolutely on her hands and hair. Finally, he seemed to realize that she wasn't going to meet his gaze, and he dropped his head somewhat sadly. It was a pathetic show of emotional blackmail; she couldn't help but think that if anyone should have realized that tactic wouldn't work, it should have been Orson. Before she could feel even the slightest annoyance, however, he held out his hand. Until this point, it had been hidden behind his back, and to her surprise, he was holding one exquisite pink azalea.

"Orson?"

"Happy anniversary."

The words halted her movement. Slowly, she dropped her hands to grip the sink, ignoring the way strands of loose hair fell haphazardly around her face. Without meaning to, she finally met Orson's eyes in the mirror. There was a horrifying mix of hope and regret shining in their depths, and against her will, Bree felt some surge of sorrow.

She hadn't even remembered.

"I know it's not much," said Orson. He turned the flower over in his fingers, and then added, so softly she had to strain to hear him, "Fragile and ephemeral passion."

"What?"

"That's what an azalea means. Fragile and ephemeral passion. I thought…It seemed apt."

The words hit her like a slap to the face, and for just a second, her eyes widened in fear because she was positive that he knew. But his face remained impassive—innocent of any ill thought against her—and she realized that he was talking about the two of them. He was talking about their relationship.

There was no deeper meaning. No double entendre. No indication that he even suspected she was in the throes of an affair.

"I know that everything between us is brittle right now," Orson continued, unaware of her thoughts. "But I want you to know that I want to fix it. I want to fix us. Because whatever is wrong right now—if the passion is gone or the trust is broken or…or something else…it doesn't change the fact that I love you. I'm always going to love you."

Bree swallowed hard, a strange and foreign lump forming in her throat. It was somehow impossible to speak.

Orson smiled sadly, nodded, and then stepped forward and set the flower on the sink. Gently, he leaned in and kissed her cheek, and then turned and left the room. Unmoving, Bree stared at the flower, and then to her hands, chalk-white from their vise-like grip on the sink. Her feelings were overpowering her in that way she hated, making everything confused and impossible to decipher. She'd been telling herself again and again that she no longer loved Orson—that he was basically holding her captive in this marriage.

Maybe it was the truth.

Maybe it was any easy lie to believe.

At this moment, she honestly didn't know.

_Passion _is _fragile and ephemeral_. _Love isn't_.

Tentatively, she shook the thought away. It did her no good to ponder these things, to second-guess herself. Blinking back tears, Bree reached up and finished fixing her hair. When she walked out of the bathroom a few minutes later, the azalea still sat untouched on the sink.


	21. Home

**Disclaimer: **I think everyone knows by now that this isn't mine.

**A/n: Jess** requested a story about Tom and Lynette going house hunting, and here it is. Takes place pre-series, obviously. My heartiest thanks in advance to all of you who read and review. You guys are the best.

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Twenty-One: Home**

"What would you say if we just skipped the rest of the houses today, Mrs. Pennyfeather? Hmm?" Tom set his hand on Lynette's knee, squeezing it gently before slipping his hand under her skirt and frisking her thigh. They'd been out house hunting for the past few weekends, a project Tom could admit they hadn't been taking entirely seriously, but he'd taken great pleasure in Lynette's penchant for looking at houses way out of their price range: veritable mansions with private pools; closed gate communities with creepily identical stone houses; estates so secluded the neighbors' houses weren't visible from the front door. It might have been a testament to how halfhearted their efforts had been thus far, but it was also strangely fun. The fact that she'd gone along with him in making up fake names to give the realtor only added to the fleeting thrill of this little game.

He also openly admitted that the role playing had led to really great sex three times now—hopefully about to turn into four.

"I know a really cheap, tiny apartment that we could go defile." Unbuckling his seatbelt, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to her neck, but she shrugged her shoulder discouragingly.

"Come on, Tom," she said, and though he sat back, he didn't remove his hand. "This next one is actually in our price range."

He laughed. "Since when are we looking in our price range?"

Lynette shot him a dirty look. "Since we found out we're going to have a baby. I know I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure it's going to need someplace to sleep."

"I thought that was what your uterus was for." He squeezed her thigh, grinning as she scowled, and then forced himself to accept that they weren't going home to have sex. "Where is this place anyway?"

"Wisteria Lane."

"Wisteria Lane," Tom echoed with the slightest disdain in his tone. "Isn't wisteria poisonous?"

"I don't think so."

"Then it's one of those creepy plants, right?"

"Creepy…? Tom, it's a flower."

"Yeah, but one of those sinister ones that creeps up behind you and tries to strangle you."

"What?" Lynette laughed and shot him a quick, ridiculing glance. "No plant does that."

"Yeah. We'll see."

She reached out and pinched his arm. "Hey, you have to be good at this one."

"I'm always good."

"No, you're the one who decided we should be Reginald and Victoria Featherhead."

"_Pennyfeather_. And you're the one who decided to start talking in that English accent. Which, by the way, is super hot."

Lynette shook her head, pulling the car up to the curb and parking, and then she turned to give Tom a chiding look. "Regardless," she said firmly, "right now you and I are Tom and Lynette Scavo, and we're going to be our sweet, charming selves and actually take this seriously."

"Since when are we sweet and charming?"

With a final scathing look that practically demanded he drop the goofiness, she opened the door and stepped out of the car. Tom followed, glad to stretch his legs if nothing else, and glanced up and down the street. It was actually a pretty pleasant looking neighborhood—neatly trimmed lawns and well-kept houses and kids riding bicycles. Then he turned to actually face the house they were looking at, and his eyebrows rose sky-high.

Sticking out like a sore thumb amongst all the little homes nestled on the cul-de-sac, their choice was a rusty orange colored monstrosity with an overgrown lawn and a cracked driveway. In some way, the whole thing seemed to sag sadly, as though it was depressed by its own existence among such perfection. Mouth still opened slightly in shock, he glanced at Lynette. "_This_ is our price range?"

"Be good."

Tom shook his head, walking around the car to join Lynette on the sidewalk, and she slipped her arm through his companionably. Together they walked toward the house where a frightfully cheerful woman stood outside the door with a big grin plastered on her face. "Lynette!" she said, stepping forward with her hand extended; Lynette slipped away from him to shake her hand, ignoring Tom's questioning look. "It's so good to see you again."

"Hey, Arlene," said Lynette, reaching out and tugging Tom forward from where he'd frozen in surprise. "This is my husband, Tom."

"Hi."

"Tom. Hello. It's so good to meet you. I'm sure you're going to love the house as much as your wife does."

"You love the house, honey?" asked Tom, purposely keeping his voice neutral. Lynette gave him a slightly guilty look, and then nodded at Arlene, who was staring at them curiously. "Let's go in," she said.

Arlene seemed to step into her element as she led them into the house, but Tom tuned out her out almost immediately. The interior wasn't quite as terrible as he feared—a little run down with scuffed floors and chipped paint—but he liked how open it was with plenty of natural light coming in from outside. He meandered into the living room area as Arlene prattled on about new kitchen appliances, running his hand over the mantle of the fireplace. Lynette was staring at him even as she nodded along in agreement with whatever the realtor was saying, but Tom remained impervious to her gaze. Clearly she'd been planning this—apparently she'd already been here—but that didn't mean he was going to agree to buy a house after standing in it for all of five minutes.

The tour seemed to go on interminably. Arlene dutifully led them through the entirety of the downstairs, even out to a dilapidated old garage, and then they went upstairs and perused four bedrooms and two baths. Lynette remained hooked on Arlene's every word as Tom tuned in and out, more interested in absorbing the actual look of the house than in listening to whatever sales pitch they were receiving. Truthfully, Lynette was the shrewder of the two of them anyway, and if came down to negotiations, he would willingly send her to the front lines. When they finally descended the stairs again, Arlene gave them a winning smile, and said, "Well why don't I just leave the two of you to discuss things?"

"Thanks," murmured Lynette, turning to Tom as Arlene stepped out of the house. He settled his hands on her hips, looking down at her curiously, as she folded her hands together in front of her lips. "Well?" she prompted.

Tom studied her, surprised by how every inch of her practically trembled in delight. Her eyes were shining in excitement, she bounced up and down on her toes, and as she lowered her hands to his chest, he could see that she was beaming. "You really like this place," he said, trying and failing to keep the note of amazement out of his voice.

"Yeah," she agreed breathlessly, either unaware or uncaring about his skepticism. "Did you see the porch swing?"

"Yeah. It didn't look very sturdy. When did you come here?"

"Last weekend while you were off playing golf." She tapped her fingers against his chest. "I was bored and looking through the classifieds and I went to a couple of open houses. But this was the only one I really liked. I mean, look at these hardwood floors."

"Okay, sweetie?" he said, trying to keep his tone upbeat. "I can see that you're really excited about this, but I have to say that it looks like a lot of work."

"Yeah, I know."

"And we're on a budget."

"I know that too. Tom, this place is a steal. The owners just had to evict the renters, and now they want to get rid of it. Maybe we'll have to do a little bit before we move in, but for the price they're offering…I mean, did you see this neighborhood?"

"Yes."

"And there's a park practically right next door. And the school district is really great."

"Lynette…" He sighed, trying to repress the guilt that blossomed as Lynette's eyes lost a bit of their sparkle. "I just wonder if we should look around a little more first. Why rush into this?"

"Because this place isn't going to be on the market for long."

"There are other places."

"I know, but Tom…I just…" Lynette bit her lip for a second and then gave him this shy little smile. "I can picture us here." She took his hand, pressing it to her stomach. "I can picture us as a family here."

Tom looked around the room, for the first time overlooking the imperfections and instead visualizing what their life here could be like. A place where they'd cook dinner together; where they would spend lazy Sundays sleeping in; where their child would take his first steps—somehow it was all as clear as day to him, a hypothetical life that could easily be made into reality. Slowly, he turned back to his wife, smiling softly at her.

"It feels like home, doesn't it?" she asked, and somewhere from the far depths of Tom's mind came the memory of Lynette telling him that she felt like she'd never had a real home in her entire life.

"Yeah," he said honestly. "It does."


	22. Motherhood

**Disclaimer: **I swear, it's not mine.

**A/n: **This one is for **Lilly**, who asked for a moment between Lynette and each of her kids when they were young. They're all five or younger in these vignettes, so I hope that qualifies. Not in chronological order, per se, but rather from oldest to youngest. Enjoy!

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Twenty-Two: Motherhood**

**i. Preston**

"Mom?"

"Hmm?"

"Are me and Porter the same person?"

Startled, Lynette glanced down at her son. Preston was sitting in the laundry basket on the kitchen floor, an old pirate's hat from Parker's Halloween costume perched on his head, but whatever imaginary game he'd been playing had clearly come to a halt. He stared up at her quizzically, head cocked to the side, and for the life of her she couldn't tell if he was upset or merely curious. "What?" she asked, somehow not positive she'd heard him correctly.

"Ben said that me and Porter are the same person. One of us is just a copy."

"Ben doesn't know what he's talking about."

"But we look 'xactly the same."

Lynette leaned back in her chair, dropping her pen on the table and sticking her feet in the basket to pull Preston closer to her. After a second, he set his own feet on top of hers, ten little toes tapping out a haphazard rhythm as he looked up at her expectantly. It was strange how she'd never really anticipated this question from either of the twins; over the years there had been plenty of inane questions from people she didn't even know (_they're so cute, but how do you tell them apart?)_, but neither of the boys had ever expressed any interest or concern over the fact that they were twins. And she wasn't precisely sure how to explain to a five-year-old any sort of concept of genetics.

"Well," she said slowly, "just because you look the same doesn't mean you're the same person."

"So you and Daddy didn't put one of us in a machine to make a second one?"

"What? No!"

"Then how come there's two of us?"

"Uh," said Lynette, desperately grasping at straws. Improvising got her in trouble as often as it saved her. "You know how we talked about how your new sister is growing inside my tummy?"

Preston nodded. "Yeah."

"Well that's where all babies start—inside a mommy's tummy. And the first time your dad and I decided to have a baby, we got extra lucky because we found out that we were going to have two babies at the same time."

"So who decides if you have one baby or two?"

"No one decides. It just kind of…happens."

Preston gave her a rather skeptical look that Lynette couldn't quite blame him for; what she'd said didn't really make any sense to her either. "So you're telling me that me and Porter was both inside your tummy at the same time?"

"Yes."

"Who came out first?"

"You did."

"So Porter copied me?"

"No," said Lynette, trying and failing to keep the groan out of her voice. "Look, honey, you and Porter are not the same person. Do you like all the same things?"

Preston frowned. "No."

"Of course not. Just like you and Parker don't like all the same things. You're all just brothers. None of you are the same."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm positive. Trust me, you two are totally different."

Preston sighed, leaning forward and laying his cheek against her knee. "That's too bad," he said.

The corners of Lynette's mouth twitched, and she desperately fought a smile. "Why?"

"Well I already have a brother. It'd be cooler to have another me."

It took everything in her power not to laugh.

* * *

**ii. Porter**

It occurred to Lynette as she stood with her hands on her hips fighting with her son that they were too much alike for their own good. It was more than the fact that Porter mirrored her position down to the way his brow was crinkled in annoyance; his obstinacy was practically an echo of her own; his temper and rashness identical to hers as a child. If motherhood was a joke meant to torture a woman with her own worst characteristics, then for her, Porter was the punch line.

"You never let me do anything fun!"

"I'm not trying to punish you," said Lynette, failing to keep her tone at an even volume. "You have a cold."

"You made me go to school today!"

"You came home at lunch because you weren't feeling well."

"So?"

"Porter, I'm not going to argue with you about this."

"it's not fair!"

"Porter—"

Stamping his foot, Porter crossed his arms over his chest and then sank to the floor to pout. For a minute, she stared at him, wondering if there was any worth in trying to reason with him, and then she shook her head and went into the kitchen. With any luck, Porter would calm down enough by the time they had to go pick up Preston and Parker from school, and she wouldn't have to deal with this incessant battle of wills. It was simultaneously admirable and frustrating how often he liked to push the boundaries of his little world, and she could only imagine what he'd be like as a teenager. With any luck, some dormant trait of Tom's would come out, and he wouldn't get into half as much trouble as she had.

Aggravated, Lynette turned to grab her checkbook so she could start paying her bills, but she barely took a step toward her purse when she realized Porter had vanished.

Who was she kidding? He was her son through-and-through.

With a sigh, Lynette walked over to the window and peered outside. She was absolutely unsurprised to see Porter out in the pouring rain, jumping in muddy puddles in his bare feet. Offering up a brief prayer for patience, she hurried out of the house and stood on the porch, glaring daggers at her son. ''Porter!"

He turned, facing her with a big, taunting grin, and then stamped his foot in the mud. Already he was soaked through, grass and mud staining the cuffs of his pants, hair plastered against his forehead, and from the look of it, he was clearly having the time of his life.

"Porter, get over here!"

Ignoring her, Porter jumped in the air, twirling around, and when he landed, he slipped and landed on his stomach with a _splat_. Without thinking, Lynette dashed into the yard toward her son. Instantly, the rain drenched her, her clothes growing water-logged and heavy, her hair sticking to her cheeks and neck, and the mud squished between her bare toes, but she barely paid attention as she knelt down next to Porter and turned him onto his back. His eyes were wide and fearful, his breath coming in short gasps, and she ran a soothing hand over his chest, forcing her voice to stay calm.

"It's okay, sweetie. You just got the wind knocked out of you. Don't worry. Just relax."

It was a very long minute before Porter finally caught his breath again, but she could tell the minute his body relaxed and his eyes lost that look of stark panic. Gingerly, she helped him sit up, and he crawled into her lap and threw his arms around her neck. "I'm sorry, Mommy!" he whimpered, pressing his head into the crook of her neck. "I'm really sorry!"

Lynette just shut her eyes, sitting back and rocking her baby in her arms.

* * *

**iii. Parker**

"Parker, what are you doing?"

Parker craned his neck backward to look up at her from where he was sitting on the floor in front of the door. He'd spread all of the mail from that day out in front of him, a scattering of envelopes and magazines and catalogues he had arranged in some mysterious order. One envelope was in his hands—their Visa bill by the look of it—and he held it reverently. "Hey Mommy," he said innocently.

"What's up with the mail, bud?"

"I'm looking for something."

Lynette pressed her lips together, but it didn't stop the smile from blossoming on her face. "What?" she asked as Parker turned his eyes back to the envelope.

"Something for me."

"Oh. Are you expecting something?"

"No. But you and Daddy get mail all the time. I want something."

Sitting down behind her son, Lynette hoisted him into her lap and peered over his shoulder. "Did you find anything?"

"Maybe. It's hard. I'm lookin' for something that starts with a P, but the only one I've found is this one." He pointed at an envelope addressed to Porter—probably a birthday card, judging by the identical envelope for Preston that she spotted amongst the chaos.

"That's really good," she said, picking up the envelope and pointing at the P with the tip of her finger. "But what's this second letter?"

Parker screwed up his face, concentrating for a moment, and then said, "O?"

"Yep. And what's the second letter in your name?"

Turning hopeful eyes toward her, he ventured, "O?"

"No. A, remember?"

Parker sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. Spelling his name was a skill they'd just started working on recently, though he'd gotten pretty good at writing the letters if he had something to copy from—the R and K consistently tripped him up. Still, she was overwhelmingly impressed with his ability to pick out one envelope amongst dozens that bore resemblance to his name.

"There's an R," he pointed out stubbornly. "And another one."

"This is for Porter," Lynette explained patiently. "The twins' birthday is in a couple days. I think it's a birthday card."

"When do I get one?"

"Not until September."

Parker groaned. "That's forever, Mommy."

Pressing a kiss to the back of Parker's head, Lynette hid her smile from view. "I know, bud," she said, making a mental note to send him a card in the mail next week. She could already picture his eyes lighting up in excitement. "But you never know. You might get a surprise."

* * *

**iv. Penny**

Lynette was haphazardly tying a scarf around her head when Penny crept into the bedroom, a hopeful, tentative smile playing on her lips. From the mirror, Lynette glanced at her curiously, but Penny simply continued to stare. "Honey," she prompted, without the time or energy to puzzle out a mystery that morning, "what's up?"

"Mommy?" said Penny, rocking up on her toes for a second and then biting her lip. "Would you braid my hair?"

"What?" Lynette turned and saw that Penny actually held a little hairbrush and ribbons in her hands, and she sighed. "Sweetie, I don't know if we have time this morning."

"Please. I need braids."

"You need them?"

"Please."

"Oh," she groaned, glancing at her watch and then back to Penny's eager face. "Okay. Come on. Up on the bed."

Quick as lightning, Penny scrambled up on the bed and turned so her back was to her mother. Gently, Lynette picked up the hairbrush and ran it through Penny's mess of curls, slowly untangling the knots. Penny wasn't usually particular about her hair, and most of the time, by the end of the day it was flying in ten different directions from running and playing all day. It was strange for her to have such a specific request this morning. "So why braids?" she asked, giving voice to her wandering thoughts.

"Because braids are cool."

"Oh really?"

"Yes."

Lynette nodded, settling for the explanation without pushing; Penny could be oddly closed-mouthed when she chose.

She hadn't braided hair since she'd lived at home with her sisters, but as she divided Penny's hair into sections, her fingers seemed to instantly remember the movements. Still, she wouldn't be winning awards for speed any time soon, and she took her time, pulling the hair tight to keep it in place.

"Mommy?"

"Yeah?"

"When you were little did Grandma braid your hair?"

Lynette snorted before she could restrain herself, shaking her head derisively. "Uh, no. Grandma did not braid my hair."

"Did you do it yourself?"

"No. Well, not when I was your age. I usually just wore it down. I had lots of curls, just like you."

"Really."

"Uh-huh."

Tongue stuck out in concentration, Lynette wrapped a band around the end of the first braid and reached for one of Penny's ribbons, but Penny pulled her hand away so the ribbon was just out of reach. "Sweetie—"

"Mommy," said Penny, turning to face her. She looked up at her with big, inquisitive eyes, and squirmed a little hesitantly. "Is my hair gonna fall out like yours did?"

Lynette's mouth dropped open for a second; she really wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "No, Penny. It's not going to fall out."

"Even though mine looks just like yours?"

"Yeah," said Lynette, giving in to instinct and chuckling just a little. It was always better to laugh, especially when there'd been so little to smile about lately. "And you know, mine is going to come back."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Good," said Penny, nodding decisively. "Because it's really pretty." She held out one of the ribbons, turning again in apparent satisfaction. "Just like mine."

Lynette nodded, kissing the top of Penny's head before tying the ribbon at the end of the braid. "Yeah," she agreed. "Just like yours."

* * *

**v. Paige**

They'd bought the piano used even though both she and Tom had been wary of making even that much of an investment. Paige had begged them, though, keeping up the constant tirade of, "Oh please, oh please," for over six months before they agreed. It had been to their delighted surprise, therefore, that three months in, Paige still had a vested interest in her lessons. Lynette sat watching her now, her feet swinging back and forth from where she sat on the bench (not even close to scraping the floor), as she tentatively made her way through "Mary Had a Little Lamb." By the time she finished, Lynette was nearly bursting with pride, and as Paige turned to face her with a huge grin on her face, Lynette blinked back tears and clapped loudly. "Yay!" she cheered, as Paige jumped off the bench and took a little bow. At five, she was an unreserved showoff.

"Didn't I do good?" she asked smugly, twirling a little so her dress spun out.

"You did wonderful, baby."

"Some day I'm gonna have a recital and play in front of lots and lots of people and I'm going to be the bestest one."

Lynette shook her head, fairly sure she should discourage this bragging, but Paige came by this competitiveness naturally—Lynette had the feeling that nothing she said could actually quell it. Standing, she walked over to her daughter and heaved her into her arms. "You want me to show you?" asked Paige.

"Show me what?"

"How to play."

Lynette smiled, sitting down on the bench with Paige in her lap. "Okay," said Paige assuredly. "This is middle C."

"Okay."

"When I say go, you push it, okay?"

"Okay."

With skill that Lynette was slightly awed to see in a five-year-old, Paige set her fingers on the keys and started to play some simple tune that Lynette vaguely recognized from some hazy childhood memory. Together, they haltingly made their way through the number, Paige prompting her with a firm "Go," that was sometimes a little late, sometimes overpowered by her sweet, girlish giggling. By the time they finished, Paige was laughing openly, and she leaned back contentedly in Lynette's arms as Lynette managed to play "Chopsticks" with two fingers.

"You're pretty good, Mommy," Paige said as Lynette ran her fingers over the keys aimlessly and then pulled back to hug her daughter. It was strange to think that in another week, Paige would start kindergarten, and these lazy afternoons together would disappear. Lynette couldn't remember ever feeling quite so nostalgic at the thought—probably because she knew without doubt that Paige was her last baby.

Slowly, Paige turned in her arms to face her, setting her little hands on Lynette's cheeks and looking at her seriously. "You know, I've been thinking."

"You've been thinking what?"

"It's time for Penny to come home."

Lynette smiled, though it felt a little forced. "We talked about this, baby. Penny's not going to be home until Thanksgiving."

"But why?"

"Because she's away at school now."

Paige frowned, leaning back and putting her elbows on the piano so the keys made an ominous sound. "Well I'm never going away to school."

"Oh really?"

"Yes. I've decided. I'm just gonna stay with you and Daddy forever."

Lynette laughed, leaning forward and kissing Paige's forehead. "Okay, sweetie," she said, forcing her mind to not wander thirteen years into the future where Paige would be singing a decidedly different tune. For the briefest moment, she wondered what she and Tom would do with this piano, and then she brushed the thought away.

She just had to enjoy this while it lasted.


	23. Ships Passing in the Dark

**Disclaimer: **It really, truly doesn't belong to me.

**A/n: **This one is for **Roxyann**, who asked for a Bree/Rex fic. Takes place pre-series, but very close to the pilot episode. Warning: angst ahead.

I posted a drabble exercise on my blog last night (link on my profile page). Whichever one gets the most votes in the poll will be turned into a real fic. If you have any interest, please visit and cast a vote.

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed. You guys are amazing.

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Twenty-Three: Ships Passing in the Dark**

Rex often thought that when he looked at Bree now, he was really looking for a person he used to know. He would gaze at her, trying to see through the fake smile and the perfect hair and immaculately pressed clothing to the passionate woman inside, but it was an impossible task. He couldn't force himself to see what wasn't there; remembering what she used to be like wasn't the same as knowing it still existed deep inside of her.

At least that's what he thought.

Tonight, Bree sat in front of the mirror, slowly brushing her hair. To the casual observer, there was nothing suspect about this picture—just an average, perhaps vapid woman, lost in thought. But Rex knew her. He knew her so well that he could predict what she was going to say before she said it; so well that he could read her like a book. There was nothing normal about tonight.

It was the way she was brushing her hair, he thought, stroking it with an absentmindedness that he rarely saw from her. Bree never did anything purposelessly, but that was exactly what this was: repetitive, mindless purposelessness. In the mirror he could see her eyes reflecting vacantly back at herself. She wasn't seeing herself—at least not whoever she was on the outside—she was lost in a world of introspection and emotion that she almost never visited anymore. Her hand was trembling just slightly. Her lips were drawn just a little too tightly, pinched down in a frown.

For the first time in months, Rex truly desired her. He desired to know this person sitting across the room; to take her in his arms and hold her; to ask her to tell him her secrets. It was abnormal, the pleasure he was taking in her grief. He didn't know if that said more about him or her.

Of course, it didn't really change anything between them.

Still, he went to her then. Despite whatever sickening enjoyment he took from this moment, despite how they really weren't a loving couple any more, the fact of the matter was that she was in pain; she was showing him her pain. And that could only mean she needed some sort of comfort, comfort that Rex was still willing—obligated?—to give her. Gently, he placed his hands on her shoulders, squeezing them and staring into her eyes through the mirror. She gazed back at him with eyes alive with recognition, but still bogged down in some private moment that she didn't—couldn't?—entirely hide. Slowly, she laid one of her hands on top of his. Her skin felt like ice.

"I'm going to make lasagna, I think," she said. It was halfhearted, as though she was expected to say it. "I remember Mary Alice once said it was Zach's favorite."

Rex stared at her, unblinking, not speaking, just waiting. It was a long moment until Bree broke, blinking rapidly and dropping her gaze to the tabletop. He could feel her hand shaking where it still touched his.

"Do you think…" She trailed off. Bree never ended a sentence before it came to fruition; she didn't waste time that way. Rex bent and kissed the top of her head, and his wife let out a shaky breath. "I…" she said hesitantly. "Well I just don't know what else there is to do…right now."

"There's nothing to do right now," said Rex quietly. "Tonight is for you."

"No."

He nodded, kissing her again. "It is. And it's okay."

Bree sighed. It was this shuddery kind of sigh, reeking of all the emotional fragility Bree hated so. He loved her so much in that moment that it hurt to know that it wasn't going to last beyond that instant.

"I don't know why…" She looked up into his eyes again, and when she blinked, one single tear rolled down her cheek. "I'm going to miss her. She was my best friend."

"I know."

"It's so senseless. I don't understand why…She was sensible. Sensible people don't…"

There was something so horrible about the way she couldn't say the words. It irked him incessantly when she censored herself. Cruelly, perhaps, but necessarily, he finished the thought. "They don't kill themselves."

The words broke something inside of her. Without warning—without thought or reason or sense—Bree laid her arms on the dressing table and buried her face in the crook of her elbow and sobbed. Her hair was everywhere, spread out like a river of fire around the pure white of her nightgown, the ghostly pallor of her skin. Every part of him tingled as he stared at her.

For a long moment—longer than he should have—he didn't move. He just watched her weep.

Then, slowly, he bent and pulled her toward him. She was loose in his arms, like he was as comforting as the table, unrepentant in her dismissal of his embrace. He didn't care. All he felt were her tears so hot against his neck; her chest heaving as she sobbed; her body wracked with emotion.

"How am I supposed to believe in anything anymore?" she asked haltingly.

Rex didn't know what to tell her.

He'd stopped believing years ago. He'd stopped believing the moment he realized she'd closed herself to him. Even this, now, was a fleeting ghost of a moment. Soon she'd be herself again, worse, maybe, for showing him such unrestrained emotion now.

Nothing was going to change.

Everything already had long ago.

"Just don't give up," he found himself murmuring. It was the only true thing he could say to her. "Life always goes on."

It occurred to him, dimly, that he meant to tell her this when he asked her for the divorce. That now, inevitably, he would have nothing to say that meant anything. But it needed to be said now.

She needed to hear it now.

Rex held her in his arms as she continued to cry. They didn't speak again.


	24. Worth the Wait

**Disclaimer: **It's not mine and it never will be. I really don't own the first five lines or so that are directly from the episode.

**A/n: **Two in one day! How oddly productive of me!

This one is for **Maddy**, who asked for a continuation of the sexy IM scene in "It Wasn't Meant to Happen." Starts with the IMs and make its way to much dirtier content. Rated M—proceed at your own risk.

Also, I couldn't bring myself to write in IM-speak, so to say. I don't do it myself, and I've never known anyone over the age of thirty who does (although I'm sure that some do), so I didn't include it here. Please forgive me for the slight variation on what the episode showed.

Thank you in advance to anyone who reads and reviews. Your feedback means the world to me.

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Twenty-Four: Worth the Wait**

**T-Man Scavo: When are you coming home?**

Lynette65: At this rate? Never.

**T-Man Scavo: He's keeping you late and I'm horny!**

Lynette65: Naughty boy!

**T-Man Scavo: Yup. I'm a naughty, horny boy.**

Lynette65: What do you want me to do about that?

**T-Man Scavo: Dunno. What do you want to do?**

**T-Man Scavo: Lynette?**

**T-Man Scavo: Are you still there?**

Lynette65: Sorry.

**T-Man Scavo: Don't tell me you were actually working?**

Lynette65: No. Ed just needed…It's a long story.

**T-Man Scavo: Well you were gone a long time. We were getting worried.**

Lynette65: We?

**T-Man Scavo: Me and Junior Tom.**

Lynette: Yeah. I'm not so sure this is a good idea.

**T-Man Scavo: It's a great idea. You know, unless you're about to come home. That would be better.**

Lynette65: I'm not.

**T-Man Scavo: Well then we're going to have to make due. **

Lynette65: Or you could wait. Patience is a virtue.

**T-Man Scavo: I thought we already established that I'm a bad boy. I have no virtue.**

**T-Man Scavo : Come on, sexy. Tell me what you're going to do to me when you get home.**

**T-Man Scavo: Or do you want me to tell you what I'm going to do to you?**

Lynette65: Look, I'm just not comfortable doing that here.

**T-Man Scavo: Since when?**

Lynette65: Ed is right across the hall.

**T-Man Scavo: So?**

**T-Man Scavo: Can't you just shut the blinds?**

Lynette65: No!

Lynette65: Look, I might have accidentally sent an IM to Ed that was meant for you.

**T-Man Scavo: Oh REALLY?**

Lynette65: Shut up.

**T-Man Scavo: What did it say?**

Lynette65: Nothing. The point is that I feel like he's watching me now. And if I close the blinds, he'll know exactly what's going on. So we're not doing anything.

**T-Man Scavo: Since when are you so shy?**

Lynette65: I'm at work.

**T-Man Scavo: Since when are you so shy at work? **

**T-Man Scavo: Do you remember that time you were giving me a blow job and Vince Nickels walked in?**

**T-Man Scavo: And you just crawled under my desk, cool as a cucumber, still sucking me off.**

Lynette65: That was a long time ago. I'm a mother now.

**T-Man Scavo: Not my mother.**

**T-Man Scavo: I wish I was there now to return the favor. Right under your desk, pushing your skirt up and putting my mouth right on your pussy. Tasting you. God, you taste so good, baby.**

Lynette65: Tom…

**T-Man Scavo: Are you touching yourself?**

Lynette65: Are you?

**T-Man Scavo: My cock is so hard. **

Lynette65: You know I could help with that.

**T-Man Scavo: I do know.**

Lynette65: Imagine my hands on you, stroking up and down over your cock. Gently squeezing your balls.

**T-Man Scavo: And what are you going to be doing with your mouth?**

Lynette65: You tell me.

**T-Man Scavo: I want to feel you sucking my cock.**

Lynette65: Oh you know I will. My tongue will be all over you as I take you deeper and deeper. I want to feel your hands tangled in my hair urging me on.

Lynette65: Tom?

**T-Man Scavo: Fuck, I am so close.**

Lynette65: You want me there to finish you off, baby? Huh? You want to bury your dick in my tight, little pussy?

**T-Man Scavo: I want to fuck you so badly.**

Lynette65: I'll bet you do.

**T-Man Scavo: Are you wet?**

Lynette65: That's for me to know and you to find out.

**T-Man Scavo: You're evil.**

Lynette65: I know.

**T-Man Scavo: Just wait until you get home.**

Lynette65: Why? What are you going to do to me?

**T-Man Scavo: I'm going to kiss every inch of your body. I'm going to touch you until you're begging me to be inside of you.**

Lynette65: I don't think you'll have to wait very long.

**T-Man Scavo: Jesus.**

**T-Man Scavo: You're making me so hot.**

Lynette65: Good. I have to go.

**T-Man Scavo: No.**

Lynette65: Duty calls. I'll see you soon, big boy.

Lynette65 has signed off.

Tom felt like an eternity passed between the time Lynette signed offline and the time he finally heard her car pull into the driveway. He'd taken a shower, brushed his teeth, and watched (not really) all of Letterman before the headlights flashed through the window. Instantaneously, he was on his feet, fumbling to turn off the television and then creeping through the darkened living room to the front door. When she entered, her back was to him, and his hands immediately went to her hips, grasping her tightly and pulling her back against him. She gasped, this breathless murmur of surprise that made him grin, and he leaned down so his mouth was close to her ear.

"Hi," he whispered, barely able to suppress a groan just from the feeling of her ass pressing against his dick. "I've been waiting for you."

His right hand drifted down her leg, gathering the material of her skirt in an upward motion as he scraped his fingers up her thigh. She squirmed slightly at his touch, and he wrapped his other arm around her stomach to hold her in place. "Have you been waiting for me too?" he asked smoothly. The thought of her taunting—the mystery of wondering if she had been touching herself (or at least _longing_ to touch herself)—still echoed in his mind. Slowly, he reached her panties and slipped his fingers past the elastic to gently stroke her. Her folds were already damp, so soft and wet against his fingertips that he thought he might explode right then and there. He smiled wickedly. "You have."

"Have not."

He slipped his index finger up into her, crooking it forward to press against that horribly sensitive spot inside of her. "Don't lie to me," he growled, leaning forward and nipping at her neck. "You know liars always get punished."

"You were the one being naughty."

Tom chuckled against her neck, fumbled to undo the button of her blazer as he wriggled another finger inside of her. "So maybe you ought to be punishing me."

Lynette gasped as he began to move his hand, thumb circling her clit at he fucked her with his fingers. At the same time, he continued to unbutton her shirt, gradually revealing the silky skin of her stomach and breasts. Her breathing was rapidly growing shallower, her hips jerking ever so slightly—involuntary reactions as he urged her body toward ecstasy. "Oh God," she moaned. "Please don't stop!"

"You like that, baby? Huh? Talk to me. How does that feel?"

"Oh fuck!" Her voice rose in pitch and volume as he hit a particularly receptive spot inside of her, head tipping back to rest against his shoulder. "God—So good!"

Tom grinned and lightly bit the soft curve of her shoulder right where it met her neck. The sounds she was making were driving him to distraction—panting, moaning, whimpering—and barely able to control himself, he twisted his fingers inside of her, pushing them as deeply as he could. Her entire body seized up, quivering against him, her pussy gripping his fingers tight and unyielding, and the whole time she was gasping like she couldn't catch her breath. He continued to flick his thumb over her clit, kissing her neck all over as she trembled in ecstasy, until finally her body relaxed against him, so lax that he was practically holding her upright.

He removed his fingers from her slowly, purposely brushing against her oversensitive clit and making her cry out. As he pulled his hand away from her, she caught his wrist and gently drew his fingers up to her mouth, sucking them inside, licking her own juices off of him. Tom could barely breathe as her tongue ran over his knuckles. Her ability to arouse him with just the simplest movement was incredible.

She was incredible.

She withdrew his fingers from her mouth, lightly kissing the tip of his middle finger as she turned in his arms to face him. "You really know how to welcome a girl home," she said, gaze flickering from his lips to his eyes. Hers held the most intriguing combination of lust and mischief in their depths, and it was all Tom could do to keep from picking her up and screwing her senseless.

"Do you know," he asked, untucking her blouse from her skirt and quickly undoing the rest of the buttons, "how badly I want you?"

Smiling with so much promise it made him shudder, she quickly untied the belt of his robe. The moment it fell open, she reached down to grasp his cock, running her thumb over the tip and then stroking her hand up and down his shaft. "Do you want me?" she asked coyly. "Do you want to be inside of me? Do you want to fuck me?"

"God, yes." He sighed, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers, and shut his eyes. He could feel her moving—her hand left his dick—but her lips found his, kissing him hurriedly, hungrily, desperately. His hands were shaking as he blindly reached up to peel her shirt away from her body, and when he pulled away and opened his eyes, he saw that she'd stripped herself of her skirt; she now stood naked in front of him in their foyer, her body strangely mysterious in the dim light. "God," he said as she tugged his robe off of his shoulders, "I have been waiting all night for this."

"Hmm," she giggled, grasping his hands and backing away toward the living room. "So are you going to confess?"

"Confess what?"

"Did you get off earlier?"

Her legs hit the arm of the couch, and he pushed her backward until she was flat on her back against the cushions. As he draped his body over hers, she put her hands on his chest, keeping him at arm's length. "You have to tell me."

"Of course I did," he muttered, leaning down and pressing a kiss against her breast. "Did you?"

She laughed and lifted her legs so she could wrap them around his waist. His cock ran over her center, still soaking wet and so inviting that he had to bite his lip to keep from moaning. "That's my secret."

"Why do you get to keep a secret and I have to confess?"

"Because I'm the woman. I'm supposed to be mysterious. It makes me more desirable."

"Oh really."

"Yes," she said, squeezing her legs tightly and pressing her hips up into him. "Really."

"Well don't you want me to be all secretive and mysterious too?"

"No. You're the man."

"So?"

"So you're supposed to be direct and in charge."

Tom laughed and kissed her, simultaneously shifting to move his dick inside of her. Somehow restraining himself, he only entered her partway, leaving her writhing beneath him as she tried to get him to go further. "Since when am I in charge?" he asked teasingly.

"Shut up," she said, but it came out weak and frustrated. Whimpering, she slapped her hands against his ass, pushing on him, silently urging him on.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you need me to do something?"

"Tom—" She blew out a frustrated sigh and tried to glare at him; it didn't quite work. "What do you want?"

"I want the truth. Were you touching yourself at work? Were you fingering your pussy? Did you play with your clit until you came?"

"I was at work."

"And?"

"And…Yes, okay? Is that what you want to hear? That I was masturbating in my office while our boss was sitting right across the hall?"

Tom smiled, leaning down and pecking her lips. "Yes. That is exactly what I wanted to hear."

Lynette opened her mouth—probably to chastise him—but at that moment he pushed the rest of the way into her, reveling in the feeling of her muscles stretching around him and the little gasp she made as he filled her completely. "Fuck," she hissed, running her hand through her hair and pushing it away from her face. "You…Oh God!"

Tom kissed her again, harder this time, their lips crashing together, tongues dueling, teeth accidentally clicking together. Unable to hold back any longer, he started to move, thrusting in and out of her with a sudden, hurried desperation. She clenched against him, as though trying to hold him inside of her, and the sensation of her so hot and tight was enough to make him crazy. In his mind, the vision of her in her office, discreetly touching herself as his words brought her to orgasm played over and over on a loop. She was so adventurous—so intriguing—so…Lynette.

She pulled away, and he took the moment to pay homage to her breasts as she moaned loudly, her breath escaping in short, hiccupping shrieks. "Oh God! Oh Tom, faster! Faster, please, God!"

Tom let her words spur him on, taking her nipple into her mouth and biting down. Her back arched very suddenly as she gasped, "Oh fuck!" and her hand drifted down to finger her clit.

"Oh, come on, baby," he moaned, somehow finding the ability to move even faster. "Let me see you, cum."

Lynette began to move her hips in frantic circles, a sure sign she was nearing an orgasm, and Tom forced himself to slow down and thrust into her hard and deep several times before he sped up again. The sudden change did it—she screamed as she came, head pressing back into the pillow, back rising off of the couch, legs tightening around him as her entire body shook from the inside out. Tom continued to drive into her, letting the intensity of her orgasm push him over the edge with her, and as her nails dug into his back, he groaned and came inside of her.

"Oh God, oh God," Lynette muttered, the words spilling out without rhyme or reason. "Oh _God_ that was amazing."

Tom couldn't speak. His arms felt like jelly, and he collapsed on top of her, barely managing to shift his weight to the side to keep from suffocating her. Her hands ran over the top of his head, down his back, as she continually pressed soft kisses against his neck. "Amazing," she breathed, the word ghosting against his skin.

Tom nuzzled her shoulder with his nose. "I'm so glad you're home," he whispered, barely conscious of what he was saying.

"Worth the wait?"

He nodded, kissing her, smiling. "Always."


	25. Life Moves On and On

**Disclaimer: **It really still isn't mine.

**A/n: **This is an AU fic about Bree and Karl being married (in a world where Orson died instead of Karl). This is for **Smile-It's-Easy** and **ILoveMyTeddyBear**, who both requested this scenario. A little different than the norm, but I hope it still works.

Enjoy!

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Twenty-Five: Life Moves On and On**

"I always thought it would be me."

She doesn't look at him, and that bothers Karl more than anything. She just continues to set the table as if nothing is happening. Finally, after a pause that is a little too long for him to truly believe she doesn't know what he's means, she says, "What are you talking about?"

"You know," he continues as though she hasn't spoken, "because of that whole rule about never eating dinner in front of the television. Sometimes a guy just wants to sit on the couch with a large pizza and a beer and watch some TV."

She sighs. "Karl, we're having a dinner party in less than an hour. Can we just agree that that's never going to happen and move on?"

"That's my point! I have given up on that ever happening, and I have moved on."

"Good."

"Being denied one basic pleasure that every other man in America is allowed to partake in hasn't driven me over the edge."

"Karl—"

"But you're the one cheating on me."

She moves in slow motion—maybe he sees it that way; everything seems blurry like it's underwater. But eventually, her head rises and she looks at him with this face that's completely telling in its unreadable-ness. "I'm not—"

"Don't," he says, because in his mind he can hear himself saying the same thing and it's too much to think that he put Susan through this once. He smiles sadly. "The bad thing about marrying a former cheater is that it's much easier for him to pick up the signs. Plus, and I hate to tell you this, babe, but you're really bad at it."

Bree's lips purse like he insulted her, which is so funny he wants to cry, and she sets down the last plate. "So tell me, with whom am I supposedly cheating on you?"

"I don't care."

"You don't care?"

"No. I don't. What does that matter? I'm mostly concerned with the fact that you're fucking someone else."

He delights in the way her eyes widen, scandalized. "Don't use that language in my dining room," she hisses.

"Would it be more appropriate in the kitchen? The living room? Fuck, Bree, will you look up and realize what's going on around you? I'm accusing you of having an affair!"

"I hear you."

"And?"

"And I refuse to do this."

She walks past him, turning to avoid brushing his shoulder as she heads into the kitchen. For a second, he stares incredulously at the wall before he whips around and follows her out of the room. When he speaks again, somehow his voice is calmer. "You refuse to do what exactly?"

"Talk about this now. We're going to have four couples here in forty-five minutes, and you expect me to discuss this? Do you want the lamb to be ruined?"

"Do I want…Do you hear yourself?"

"Do you hear yourself?"

Karl stares at her agog, but Bree ignores him, and he finds that rage bubbling underneath the surface again. Angrily, he grabs her elbow and spins her around to face him. She holds her arm at an angle, face contorted as though his touch is burning her. "I know that you're probably hoping a plane is going to drop on me so you can avoid this the way you did with Orson, but it's not going to happen. You have to talk to me."

Bree blinks. He'd like to think she's trying not to cry, but he's pretty sure that she lost the capability years ago. Very suddenly, he's reminded of the way he used to think of her years and years ago, before everything went to hell with Susan, before Rex died, when he was convinced she was nothing but a stuck up prude. It hurts so much worse, though, because now he knows that that's not what she is at all, and it makes it more painful to know what he's actually losing.

"I can't believe you just said that to me."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not cheating on you."

He doesn't really believe her—maybe he can't—but there's something else, something more that she isn't saying. "But?"

"But…" She sighs, but straightens up, standing tall against this burden. "I'm not happy."

Slowly, he releases her, takes a step back, staring at her as though really seeing her for the first time. "Are you happy?" she asks sadly.

Karl thinks again about not being able to eat pizza in front of the TV. He thinks of how even after five years of marriage, this house still looks like Bree's house, not their house. He thinks of how she needles him into going to church on Sunday even though he's not religious, and of how she never belly laughs in that way he secretly finds sexy.

"No," he says. His heart feels like it's about to explode. "No. Because you're not happy. How can I be happy if you're not?"

Bree nods thoughtfully, as though weighing this thought that really makes no difference whatsoever. "You're a better man than people give you credit for. I hope you know that."

Karl shrugs because he really just wants to ask her who cares? That doesn't change anything. Instead he asks her the one question that really matters. "Where do we go from here?"

She stares at him—this long, meaningless, unreadable, interminable stare—and then says, "To dinner."

Quietly, she picks up the wine glasses and walks past him to the dining room, leaving Karl alone in the kitchen. He can't move. He can't think. Somehow, all he manages to do is whisper, "Okay."

After all, he still has to eat.


	26. Everything

**Disclaimer: **I make absolutely no claim to this.

**A/n: **This is for **Jazmyn-96**, who (months ago) requested a fic about Tom's perspective of the kids being born, and who has been so patient as I struggled to get it together. I wrote it on the birth of the twins.

And I really have to follow my first disclaimer with a second: I have absolutely no experience with childbirth, so if I've made any glaring errors, please forgive me. This is probably the most difficult fic I've written, just for that reason, but I hope that it still suffices.

Any and all feedback will be greatly appreciated. Thank you all for being so fabulous!

-Ryeloza

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Twenty-Six: Everything**

When Lynette shook him awake in the middle of the night, annoyingly persistent, Tom's immediate reaction was to reach for her, mumbling, "Again, baby? I need to sleep."

She elbowed his chest a little. "Get your mind out of the gutter," she ordered, as if she hadn't woken him up just to have sex more times than he could count during the pregnancy. But it was then that he noticed that the bed was wet, and he finally roused, looking down at her with concern. Even in the dim light he could see the nervous anticipation on her face. "My water broke," she said, so calm that Tom could hardly stand it. Somehow he was frozen, just staring at her, incapable of thought or movement or action.

"We still have three more weeks," he said stupidly. The truth was that he'd been on edge since week thirty, doctors' warnings about twins and early birth constantly circling in his mind like a threat. It was impossible that he was shocked by this, and the look on Lynette's face let him know that she was thinking that exact thing.

"Not anymore."

So they went to the hospital, and miraculously, he managed not to crash the car.

It was tragically funny. After spending (almost) nine months doing (almost) nothing but preparing for this moment, Tom couldn't believe how off kilter he was. Somehow, every single expectation he built up in his mind was nothing like he ever imagined it.

It wasn't like those sitcoms on television—barely time to get to the hospital before the babies were born. Once they got there, there were tests and blood-work and ultrasounds and people buzzing around monitoring things. Lynette actually managed to sleep a little while, Tom dozing, never quite asleep beside her. It seemed strange that after such a heart-pounding start, everything came to a screeching halt; he kept waiting for something more to happen.

But it was just waiting.

And waiting

And waiting.

The hours wore on, contractions slowly getting worse and longer and more frequent. Lynette didn't scream at him for no reason or blame him for doing this to her or whatever other clichés he'd seen a hundred time over on TV. Mostly she seemed uncomfortable and exhausted and more and more desperate for it to all be over, and he couldn't do anything but feed her ice chips and try his best to distract her from the pain. That was the worst part: the uselessness. He'd never felt more like he wasn't not doing his part in this relationship, and it was so unfair to her.

"I should have brought a game," he babbled uselessly at some point. She gripped his hand like a vise, a harsh chuckle escaping her lips despite the pain. "Scrabble, right? You always kick my ass at Scrabble."

"I kick your ass at all board games."

"Not Pictionary."

Lynette grimaced—though he doubted it was at the dig at her drawing skills—and desperately he strove for something else to divert her attention. It was hard to concentrate on much else but the way her brow was furrowed and how his wedding ring was bruising his fingers where she squeezed, and in a sudden, blind panic he began to sing, the words coming out low and slightly unsteady.

"_I know it's late. I know you're weary. I know your plans don't include me_—"

He continued, making it almost to the chorus before Lynette blew out a deep breath and shakily brushed her hair back from her forehead. Slowly she turned her to look at him, eyes speaking volumes of incredulous gratitude. "Were you really just singing a sex song to me while I was having a contraction?"

Tom was saved from the obvious answer as the doctor came into the room, all brisk business and cheery smiles. He wondered if it was really possible to become immune to the overwhelming emotional process, sure that he would never get used to it even if they had another ten kids.

Although, at this point he was fairly certain Lynette would never agree to this madness again.

"Well," said the doctor, finishing his exam and grinning foolishly, "are you guys ready to become parents?"

Tom had never been more and less ready for anything ever in his life.

Suddenly, everything seemed to move at high speed.

Someone shoved scrubs into his arms and told him to change, and then jolting, as though he couldn't remember how it happened, they were in the delivery room and nurses were buzzing around and Lynette's feet were in the air and the doctor was telling her to push.

It was like moving through a fog—unseeing, so surreal, knowing where you wanted to go with no idea how you were actually getting there.

And then they were there.

And it was amazing.

Five pushes and suddenly there was this tiny, screaming, bloody mess of a person that he just caught a glimpse of before he was whisked away. And he couldn't breathe. It only made sense, really. What else could be expected when his life had just changed forever in the space of a minute?

"Oh my God." He turned to look at Lynette, every emotion in the world written on her face, eyes overwhelmed with this indefinable quality that took his breath away. And he just leaned forward to kiss her again and again, laughing because there was no other way to express everything he was feeling. He had never loved her more; never been more in awe of a person in his life.

It seemed like too much to ask her to do it again.

"Alright," said the doctor, like this was an everyday occurrence, "let's see what baby B is up to now that he's got some room to stretch out."

Lynette lay back, shutting her eyes like she'd completely forgotten that she had to do this all over again. Tom brushed the tears from her cheeks with the pad of his thumbs and then picked up her hand and gently kissed her palm. The sound of the baby's heartbeat was whirring in the background like a drum in his mind, and as they did another ultrasound, the doctor clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

"Well it looks like he's still breach, and a little high. He doesn't seem in a hurry to leave."

Lynette rubbed her eyes, sighing wearily. "Are you kidding me?"

"He's a being a little stubborn."

"Just like his mom," said Tom, the joke falling from his lips without thought. Lynette laughed, but it sounded more like she's crying, and Tom pressed a guilty kiss to her forehead.

"Okay, Lynette," said the doctor (Tom nearly flinched at the clinical tone of reassurance in his voice), "I'm going to try to turn him into the right position so you can get him out."

"Wh-What?" Tom stuttered, glancing away from Lynette to gawk at the doctor. From the hazy depths of his memory he could almost remember the insanely long list of birthing scenarios with twins, but somehow it wasn't all connecting. "Is that really necessary?"

"Tom!" Lynette snapped, drawing his eyes back to her. She looked done in, and in an instant, he shut his mouth. "Do whatever you need to," she said to the doctor. "Just get him the hell out of me."

The doctor chuckled as though there was anything funny about this moment, placing one hand on her stomach as the other did something that Tom expressly tried not to picture. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against his wife's and muttering a string of nonsensical comfort that was probably more for him than her. In all, it probably only took three minutes, but it felt like an eternity.

"All right. You ready to push again?"

Lynette shook her head. "No. No, no, no, I can't. Just pull him out of me. Please."

Futilely—because really all he wanted to do was cry or tell her that she didn't have to or find some other way for this baby to be born—Tom cupped her cheek, softly stroking her skin and forcing her to look at him. "You can do this," he said firmly. "God, baby, you can do anything, but especially this. Trust me."

And even as Lynette shook her head in disagreement, the doctor ordered her to push again, and from someplace inside of her—wherever she always found that inner strength that was unceasingly incredible—she did. It was all it took, maybe God realized it was all she had left, and then they had another child, and it was just as amazing.

And for perhaps the first time in his life, Tom was truly speechless.

The rest was a blur: the afterbirth and making sure she was okay and cleaning her up. Then, finally, they got to meet their children, neither of them bothering to hold back tears as they were handed their sons.

"They're so small," he murmured, stroking the cheek of the baby he held so, so gently because he was sure he could break in a moment. He couldn't look away; he was so completely in love.

Lynette sniffled, drawing in this shaky, sobbing breath. "I can't believe we made them. They're perfect."

Tom nodded. Perfect was the only word, and still so far from adequate.

They were everything.

And he knew then that he was never going to be the same.


	27. Toasting Marshmallows

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**A/n: **This is another one for **Breesecretdaughter, **who asked for a story about Tom and Lynette going camping as newlyweds. I hope you guys enjoy this one, and many thank yous in advance to anyone who reviews. It always makes my day to hear what you think.

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Twenty-Seven: Toasting Marshmallows**

"What is the point of coming to the woods for a weekend away?"

"The point?" Tom craned his neck to look at Lynette. She was sitting on a log with her windbreaker wrapped around her tightly, and he couldn't decipher the look on her face. Curiosity, he decided optimistically. "I don't understand the question."

"I mean we've been married almost three months, it's Memorial Day weekend, and instead of spending it somewhere fun, we're spending it in the woods."

"What makes you think this isn't fun?"

"So far you've pitched a tent—and I mean that quite literally, unfortunately—and started a fire."

"And?"

"And can you explain the fun of that when we could have gone on that wine tour?"

Tom snorted, flashing her a smile that she couldn't seem to help but return. "You're forgetting a key part of that sentence."

"A room with a bed? Copious amounts of alcohol? The fact that I could get too drunk to use the word copious?"

"I was thinking about the fact that your sister and her boyfriend would be there."

"Oh. _That_ part."

"Yeah." Tom sat back on the blanket they'd spread over the ground and leaned against the log. "At least here we're alone."

"If that was the only requirement, we might as well have stayed home."

"Come on," whined Tom, reaching out and tugging on the sleeve of her jacket. With a halfhearted eye roll, she slid off of the log onto the ground and settled between his legs. "This is going to be fun."

"Yeah, well…I should warn you that I'm wearing very practical underwear. This sports bra practically looks like an ace bandage."

"Ooh, baby. Don't stop now. I'm getting so hot."

Lynette laughed and leaned back against his chest so he could wrap his arms around her. Night had almost fallen, the moon only partially visible behind the dark, smoky clouds that Tom prayed weren't promising rain, but the fire was warm and crackling and Lynette fit perfectly in his embrace. Smiling, he kissed the top of her head and squeezed her a little tighter.

"Okay. You want the fun part?"

Lynette ran her hands over his forearms. "You mean this isn't it?"

"Not entirely."

"Because you know, even though my ass is going numb and it's freezing out here, you still feel pretty great."

"Gee, sweetie. You really know how to make a guy feel special."

"I try."

Chuckling, Tom shifted to reach for his backpack, scrounging around inside until he pulled out bag of marshmallows that he promptly dropped in her lap. "Ta-da!"

"Wow," said Lynette. "Marshmallows."

"To toast."

"I got that."

"And?"

"And I think that you are going to absolutely delight our future children someday."

"Ouch." He gave an exaggerated wince, as though her dismissal of his surprise as juvenile had actually wounded him. "Hey, hey, hey," he said, lightly pinching her wrist to keep her attention. "I'll have you know that marshmallows are really sexy."

"Oh here we go."

"No, I get it. You need to be sold on the idea. That is my job, after all." He picked up one of the toasting sticks he'd brought and skewered a marshmallow. "First of all, it has to be toasted." He forced the stick into her hand, wrapping her fingers around it. "You're gonna want to use the fire for that."

"Oh really?"

"Yes."

Apparently too overcome by his literalness to come up with a snappy comeback, Lynette sat forward to stick the marshmallow into the fire, but Tom immediately wrenched her elbow back. "Hey!" he said, taking the stick and blowing out the fireball she'd created. "I said toast, not flambé."

Lynette turned to face him, eyes dancing in the firelight, and set her hands on his thighs, leaning into his personal space. "Are you really telling me that fire isn't sexy?"

"Are you telling me that smoldering isn't?"

She grinned. "Touché." She took the stick back from him, biting off what remained of the marshmallow in a way that no man in the world could argue wasn't sexy, and then replaced it with a new one. "Fine," she said, licking her lips. "I'll do it your way."

"Can I hold you to that?"

"If you prove your point."

"Oh baby, you say that like I don't like a challenge."

Lynette chortled as she carefully toasted the marshmallow this time, turning it over near the fire until it turned a beautiful amber color. Slowly, she pulled it back and held it up for examination. "Well?" she said. "Is that a sexy marshmallow?"

"Getting there." He gingerly pulled it off, bringing it near her lips, but not for a moment drawing his eyes from hers. "You know how many sexy words you can use to describe a toasted marshmallow? Warm, soft, melt-in-your mouth…"

"Sticky?"

"Yeah," he said, refusing to let her make a joke of this. He shifted nearer to her, holding the marshmallow millimeters from her lips and dipping his head slightly. "Sticky."

Before she could say anything else, Tom pressed the marshmallow to her mouth, and she willingly bit into it. Not letting her devour it whole, he put the rest into his mouth and eagerly kissed her, hand twisting into her hair and holding her in place. Her lips were coated in sugar, mouth so sweet he could scarcely stand it, but he took his time, gently sucking on her bottom lip until every trace of marshmallow was gone. The movement seemed to break something in Lynette—her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, and deepening the kiss as she moaned into his mouth, and slowly she pushed him to the ground.

"Well?" he said, brushing a finger against her lips. She kissed it softly. "Sexy, right?"

"Oh yeah."

"And you'll admit that I was right about camping?"

"Oh baby," she said, her voice low and dangerous. She reached up and pulled her hair out of its ponytail, shaking it loose. "We both know sex sells."


	28. The Baby Guru

**Disclaimer: **It's still not mine.

**A/n: **For **charadesninja**, who asked for a Carlos/Lynette friendship fic. Thank you for all of the wonderful reviews, and I hope you enjoy. Takes place after season four, soon after Juanita is born.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! You guys are amazing!

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Twenty-Eight: The Baby Guru**

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Uh…I guess. Sure."

"You breastfed your kids, right? Well, I mean, I know you did. I remember seeing you with Penny."

Despite the fact that Carlos couldn't see, Lynette still crossed her arms over her chest somewhat uncomfortably. Ever since his unprompted proposition of an affair a few years ago, she couldn't help but feel a bit self-conscious around him at times, torn somewhere between flattery and what could only be described as ickiness. She was also fairly sure that if Carlos didn't watch himself, there was a good chance he might become the fourth man Tom ever punched.

Or maybe the first man he killed. His possessiveness was unpredictable.

"So?" she encouraged carefully.

"So how long did you breastfeed?"

"Well I had to cut it a little short with the twins because I got pregnant with Parker, but I guess…about a year with each of them?"

"Ah-ha!"

The baby whimpered at the exclamation of noise, and Carlos bounced her soothingly, murmuring an insignificant apology. Lynette just raised an eyebrow, slightly confused. "Can I ask why the sudden interest in my breasts?—feeding! Breastfeeding!"

Carlos grinned in a way that made her positive her faux pas hadn't gone unnoticed, and she shut her eyes for a moment, praying for strength. It was just so weird to be discussing breastfeeding with any man who wasn't her husband, let alone Carlos Solis.

"Gaby told me that you only breastfed for the first month."

"Oh. Well..."

"That was her justification for stopping. I wanted her to go three years, and she only wanted to do a couple weeks—"

"Three_ years_?"

"We agreed that we'd go by you."

"You said three ye—Wait, what?"

Carlos shifted Juanita to his shoulder, patting her back; she continued to fuss, clearly unhappy. "We've been arguing a lot about how to deal with the baby, so we decided that when we're at an impasse, we'll go by you."

"Why me?"

"Are you kidding? Lynette, you're kind of the expert."

"No—"

"Last time I checked, you had four kids, right? By my count, that gives you more experience than anyone else we know. You're like the baby guru."

Lynette chuckled, an automatic response to a compliment she knew she didn't deserve. "Experience is not the same as expertise," she clarified. At the same moment, Carlos stood and began to pace the room.

"Give me a break," he said pointedly. "Who else are we going to go by? No offense to Bree, but Andrew and Danielle barely talk to her, and Susan…Look, we've always gotten along with you and Tom the best anyway."

"That's…sweet, Carlos, but Gaby is not me, and you are not Tom."

"I was actually thinking of reversing that."

Ignoring the dig, Lynette continued, "And no one parents the same way. You and Gaby have to figure this out for yourselves."

Juanita let out a long cry, and Carlos sighed in frustration. Before she knew what was happening, he walked over and fumblingly pushed the baby into her arms. "Can you…Just for a little while? Thanks."

"Sure," said Lynette a touch sardonically, bouncing the baby; if anything, she seemed even more perturbed now that she'd been passed off. "I think you guys are going to have to figure this out. I mean, you're not really going to come running to me every time you disagree."

"Have you met us? Gaby and I don't exactly do compromise well. We need a tiebreaker."

"Fine. This one time I will tell you what I think. But that's it, okay?"

"Sure."

"Okay, so, no offense, but I think this breastfeeding thing is really Gaby's call."

Carlos' eyes widened in surprise, and Lynette felt the tiniest twinge of pleasure considering that he'd cornered her behind Gaby's back. "What? Are you kidding me?"

"You asked for my opinion."

"No. No. I mean, come on. She's worried her boobs are going to become misshapen." He snorted. "I told her it didn't matter; I can't see them anyway."

"Uh…"

"And yours bounced back."

"Oh God—Carlos, I don't…Breastfeeding is really personal, and it can be really trying and exhausting, and if Gaby doesn't want to, you can't force her to. And you can't make her go by me. And you really can't force her to do it for _three years_."

Carlos was quiet, either contemplating or plotting, Lynette really couldn't tell. Gently, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to the baby's cheek, breathing in that warm, wonderful baby scent for a moment. It felt strange to be the only one of her friends without a baby now, and it made her nostalgic in a way. Not that she or Tom had the slightest inclination to indulge that feeling.

"You got her to quiet down."

"What?"

"You got the baby to quiet down."

"Oh."

There was another pause, Lynette pressing her lips together in slight trepidation, and then Carlos said, "Well like I said, you're the expert."

Lynette shook her head, but she could help but smile as she stared down at the baby.


	29. Fortune Teller

**Disclaimer: **This isn't mine!

**A/n: **I'm sure you all thought that I had forgotten this piece, but I haven't! I am back to finish up the last couple requests (and to all of you who requested something after the cut-off, I wrote it down and will write it eventually). This one is for GottaGetDownOnFriday, who requested a story about Bree going to a fortune teller. I loved writing this; it was very out of the box, and fun to figure out how to make it work. I hope you enjoy!

**March Madness**

By **Ryeloza**

**Twenty-Nine: Fortune Teller**

"You have to hand it to Susie, don't you?"

Bree tore her eyes from the strange wonderland into which Susan's living room had been transformed and glanced at Karl. From his tone it was hard to tell if he was being facetious, but there was a genuine admiration in his eyes that made something in Bree's stomach seize up. She turned away from him, fighting the unidentifiable feeling—embarrassment or loneliness or jealousy or something else distasteful. "Yes," she agreed, forcing cheerfulness she didn't feel. "I honestly didn't realize it was possible for one woman to own so many scarves."

Karl chuckled, but it was still laced with that discomforting pleasure. "She sure does."

"And Julie really wanted a…_gypsy_ party?"

"Wow. Restrain yourself, madam. At this rate Susan's going to figure out how disgusting you find this."

"I don't find this dis—"

"And then she'll start crying, 'Oh Karl, why does Bree _hate me_ so much? Wah, wah, wah.' And I'll be forced to keep a straight face. Do you know how hard that will be for me?"

Bree scowled. Karl always made it so easy to remember why she never spoke to him for more than thirty seconds at a time. Just once she wished he would surprise her. "Besides," he continued before she could scold him or, preferably, walk away, "this isn't a gypsy party. It's a carnival party. What kind of eleven-year-old would want a gypsy party?" He gave her back a companionable slap and backed away from her, grinning and twirling his car keys around his finger. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a fortune teller to go pick up."

"A what?"

"Susie hired some woman to tell fortunes at the party. Apparently Madam Sophie's station wagon broke down, so I've been assigned to save the party. Never mind that maybe I want to be here to see Julie blow out her candles."

The words fell out before Bree thought them through. "I can go."

Karl froze, looking honestly mystified for the first time. "Seriously? No, you don't—"

"No, Karl." She nodded firmly, trying not to think about the fact that she was volunteering to pick up a woman who probably reeked of incense or smoke or whatever ridiculous, silly perfumes she imagined so-called fortune tellers used to trick their victims. Susan was probably won over by the simplest pizazz. "It's fine. You stay."

"You're a life saver," said Karl. She had no idea whether she could hear genuine warmth in his voice or not. He held out a sheet of paper with directions and squeezed her shoulder as he headed back toward the kitchen, the source of much girlish giggling and hubbub that tried Bree's nerves. If she was lucky, the errand would at least save her a headache.

Twenty minutes later, when Bree had pulled up outside of a very sketchy looking building and found a woman bedecked in more scarves and jewels than Susan's entire living room, she realized that her good Samaritan impulse might have been a terrible mistake. Cautiously she lowered the window. "Excuse me," she called, wincing as the woman walked over and practically leaned into the car. "You wouldn't happen to be Madam Sophie?"

"You picking me up for the kid's birthday party?"

"Yes."

Madam Sophie raked her eyes over Bree, as though assessing her appearance (Bree stiffened, insulted), and then opened the door and climbed in. Bree's worst fears were confirmed as instantly a wave of thickly scented perfume wafted over her; she was going to have to get her car professionally cleaned after this. Covering her discomfort, she chuckled self-consciously. "Don't you need your crystal ball or something?"

"I ain't that kind of fortune teller, lady."

"Oh," said Bree, wondering if there were truly different types of these people. How many different ways could there be to hustle people out of their money by predicting the future? "Well…Isn't that interesting?"

"Not really."

"I…Well you…"

"Can we just drive, please? At this rate, I ain't gonna get charged the full three hours."

Stunned, Bree shifted the car into drive and pulled away from the curb, bristling inside with retorts that didn't seem to reach her lips. Finally, somewhat huffily, she managed to say, "You don't have to be so rude."

"You're lookin' at me like a menace to society and I'm the one who's rude?"

"I'm sorry that I have a problem with you taking money from my friend under false pretenses."

"False pretenses, huh? You ever been to a psychic?"

Bree sat up straighter—clearly this woman couldn't tell that she wasn't a fool, a fact that insulted her more than she wanted to admit. "Of course not," she sneered. "You may be amusing to children, but I'm a grown woman. I'm not going to fall for whatever ridiculously vague predictions you might make."

"You calling me a hack?"

"No. I'm putting you in the same category as a magician. Although that might be too generous. At least magicians don't pretend they aren't illusionists."

To Bree's surprise, Madam Sophie laughed, a deep-throated, hoarse sound that turned into a bad cough halfway through. "Oh honey," she said, causing the hair on the back of Bree's neck to prickle in disgust, "I can read you like a book."

"Excuse me?"

"You know the people who come to me most often? Uptight, rich bitches like you. Pretending they're all above it when secretly they need to know if Mr. Perfect is really screwing the nanny. You're all the same. I don't need to be psychic to see your future. You'll end up divorced, miserable and old."

It took every vestige of loyalty she had to Susan not to pull over the car right then and dump Madam Sophie out on the sidewalk. Instead, Bree shook her head, barely able to hide the fury in her words. "Fine. Do it then."

"Do it?"

"Tell my fortune. If you're so legitimate, tell me one actual _fact_. Something real. Not a stereotype garnered from the fact that I drive a nice car, dress impeccably and don't reek of a whorehouse."

For the first time Madam Sophie actually looked surprised, and that, if nothing else, proved to Bree that she'd been right all along. As if anyone could predict the future. There was only the slightest hesitation, though, before she reached out and pulled Bree's right arm away from the steering wheel. A protest rose and fell on Bree's lips as she glanced over at the other woman, her eyes shut, a look of intense concentration on her face. For a long moment, Bree was mesmerized; when she finally came to her senses, she wrenched her arm away and had to repress a shudder of disgust.

"I didn't tell you to—"

"Death follows you around, honey."

Bree's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "I'm sorry, but you—"

"It's drawn to you like a moth to the flame. Ever since you was a kid. You lost your mama, right?"

The words were like a slap to the face. For this woman to so casually bring up a pain she kept guarded and buried so deeply inside of her, for her to have somehow guessed this of her when she prided herself on not letting that tragedy define her—it was horrifying. "How did you know that?" she asked, her voice shaking in an unrecognizable manner.

"That was just the first, too. There's been a lot more since then. A sibling, I think. Maybe a close friend. And that ain't the end of it either. It's something that's gonna follow you the rest of your life."

"Death follows everyone," sputtered Bree incredulously, not willing to admit that the prediction sent a chill down her spine. It felt like one of her darkest nightmares brought to life.

"Yeah. But I'm talking about untimely deaths. Sudden ones. They're just gonna keep coming, and you'll just keep on going on. Like all those deaths are orbiting you. You're the center of it all."

Bree strained herself to find an appropriate response. It felt as though her lungs had closed off, though, robbing her of oxygen; her brain was swimming in protest.

"Eventually you're gonna start to feel immune to it. Maybe you already are." Madam Sophie reached out and gripped her forearm tightly. "Don't forget that the grief makes you human. Don't push it away. It won't ever break you, so don't be scared of it."

Blessedly, Bree turned onto Wisteria Lane then, practically speeding down the street to reach Susan's driveway. Madam Sophie was still staring at her, still holding her arm, but Bree couldn't find the words to allow her to escape. She felt like a fool for falling under this woman's spell, but even that cognizance couldn't rid her of this terrible feeling that it all might be true.

"You prey on insecurities," she finally managed to say. Her voice was quiet, and she could hear the unbidden thread of pain in it.

"Not everyone's future is so sad. I can't tell though…"

"Can't tell what?"

"If you bring it on yourself. If there's some way to break it, I can't see it. Maybe you're cursed."

And at that, the spell broke. Bree shook her head, nearly laughing at herself, but not quite able to (she never had had that grace). "Death isn't a curse," she said. "It's part of life. And just because I've maybe had more than my fair share of it doesn't mean that it defines my life."

"Oh honey—"

"You're getting paid to be here," said Bree, firmly putting this woman back in her place. There was no point in giving her more credence than she deserved. This was all nothing more than a silly game, and she smiled coldly.

"The children are waiting for you."


End file.
